


Thick as Thieves

by milgrom



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milgrom/pseuds/milgrom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her name is Katherine Marjorie Frey - a Breton, a brigand & bard, and literal daughter of the Thieves' Guild makes her way through the harsh lands of Skyrim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Bit of a Thing

She was small, so short in stature you would lose her underfoot. Her saucer eyes were the color of the summer sky and her long ginger hair, loose as the swaying summer grasses. She hummed as she wormed her way through the crowd of comparative giants, a tune he knew but could not place. Blush little lips turned a curious smirk when she realized no one would notice her.

Then, she got to work.

Deft little fingers, thin and knobby, worked their way through pocket after pocket, guardsmen and beggar alike. She was fast but never clumsy and had a way about her that screamed her experience. She seemed so young, so carefree. She seemed better suited for frolicking with other milkmaids in the flower-spotted fields. And still, he remembered his youth, a young lad only sixteen and out on his own – ah yes, those days still made him feel so nostalgic.

He kept a bird's eye on her throughout the early afternoon, closing his shop at the beginnings of evening. He wanted to follow, partly curious and partly worried – he could not chance such a promising individual coming under that bastard Maul's hammer before he could gauge her more thoroughly. Begrudgingly, he knew Mercer would appreciate a youngblood – someone he could mold, shape into the perfect, brainless little lackey.

Brynjolf spied a chance at conversation when she stopped and took a seat on the wall surrounding the central square. She kicked her legs as only those still of springtide were wont to do and procured herself an apple. She had an air of satisfaction, a very familiar one indeed. He remembered when he could be so spirited and so without restriction. Worry took over, Maven's hellish shrill crawling through his bones – he had to work fast. He leaned a small ways down the wall, exhaling loud enough to catch a sideways glance. Her doe eyes blinked sweetly, innocently, a small kiss of lashes on her cheekbones. She bit into her apple heartily, letting the juice run down her chin. It was all a practiced machination, so much that he had to choke down a laugh.

“Heavy, isn't it lass?” He took a step toward her.

“Beg your pardon, messere?” Her accent was soft, sweet as sparrows and all of it part of her ruse. She was sizing him up, even before he uttered a word.

“Your purse lass, it seems quite heavy.” He matched her smile for smile, sugary tone for sugary tone. 

“Oh?” The smile and innocent expression did not shift, not even a flinch across her eyes. “And what do you know of purses, messere?” The honorific was effective, Brynjolf had to admit. The girl was mesmerizing. Those looks and that voice would have any man falling over another to hand over his coin, without thought or worry from their harried wives at home.

“Oh I suppose it is nothing, my lady,” he moved in closer now, feeling a strange amount of heat that seemed to radiate from her skin even under the wool & leather tunic she wore. The soft orange and gold fabric complemented her skin and her hair, making it seem to sparkle under the waning daylight. “I simply know that not a single septim was earned legitimately.” Brynjolf moved closer, in line with her face and he saw it, that glimmer, that insignificant shift that gave her away.

_“Thievery?!”_ The shock would seem real to the guards, if he cared to ruin his life before Mercer slit his throat, but not loud enough to alert anyone of concern. In his peripheral he spied Sapphire, clever girl already running interference for a private conversation. “Why, I would never do something so awful!” Her eyes grew larger, started to sparkle with cat  & canary tears and she put a gasping hand across her chest, “Such accusations –”

“Save _that_ for the guards, lass.” Laughter crept into his speech and he flopped shaggy bangs from her forehead. “I saw you today.” He shook his head and was unable to stop his chuckling. “I'd wager I was the only one, not to worry. You're quick lass, best I've seen in an age.” She moved away from his touch, the feigned innocence dropping instantly from her face.

“Your point?” The sweetness was mostly gone, only a small hint of that High Rock brogue remaining. Her brow crinkled and the freckles across her nose shifted just so. “If you want me for your outfit, save it. I do not play well with others, messere.” She practically spit the word and achingly blue eyes narrowed fiercely. 

“Fair enough lass, bit of advice then? Would you listen to that before you run off?”

She bit into the apple again, her full attention and new-found hard stare matching his own cunning, well-practiced face. She was searching for his tell, and would be disappointed, he had more years to perfect and craft his mask.

“Are you going to tell me,” she swallowed thickly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “that this is Maven Black-Briar's city?” In turn, she dragged that same hand on the sleeve of his freshly laundered silk tunic. Visions of strangling her fluttered into his mind's sight unbidden. “I am already aware of just who runs this city. Are you one of hers? Friends with that great big oaf by the gates, are you? Did not take you for a heavy hitter.” A feral smile spread those buttercream lips, a threat now more than a ploy.

“Oh no sweetling, certainly not one of hers, but I do know when I am outmatched.” He could drip venom just as well, perhaps better than she could any day of the week.

She laughed slightly, taking his words as insult more than a warning. Girl had an ego three times the size of her stature.

“Outmatched in what, my good ser? I am very well aware of where I am and what I am doing.” She batted those long dark lashes again, making another small crinkle in the bridge of her nose appear. That sharp glimmer in her eyes seemed familiar, like he had seen it before, but he was damn sure he would never have forgotten a face like hers.

He matched her, toe to tip. “Then you have already seen the two, hmm, family members on the Broker's roof?” He moved hair from her brow again, more intrigued than ever at her resilience when she leaned into his touch. She was playing into his hand just as much as he was playing into hers. The girl's smile dropped and her eyes found them at once, all the while nuzzling the soft smooth skin of her face against his rough, calloused palm. His thumb involuntarily ghosted over her lips and a small sound escaped.

He had spied the Brotherhood kittens pattering on the rooftops the moment she sat down. They were Maven's gifts from the Family, two khajiiti girls, twins Brynjolf suspected, though one could never tell with cats. They were still as statues on the roof of the Pawned Prawn, haunting yellow eyes shimmering in the fading daylight. He knew the moment she walked away, to leave the city or otherwise, they would be upon her. The wicked felines used to leave bodies in the water before Maven caught wind and cut their pay. Now they at least took their kills to the wooded hills.

“Have a drink then, messere? My treat.” She placed a small, soft hand where she had left her apple stain. Her fingers gripped his upper arm, testing or so it felt. He looked at those marvelously deft fingers, long and thin and dressed in gold rings. He wondered if they were from today's work or before – either way, it was a good haul.

“Only if you listen to what I have to offer you lass, on my honor you will not be disappointed.” He placed his hand over hers, skin hot to the touch, feverish, though not quite. “And your name, of course.” She tensed when kissed her bony knuckles. She pulled away and that eerie warmth remained on his lips.

“Kat.” Her voice did not waiver, but her body seemed ready to run and hide herself away. “M-my name is Kat. And you, messere?” She struggled to keep the mask from slipping and he wondered if she had ever been confronted by a fellow tradesman before. She was proving to be more and more promising with every passing moment, despite the small slip in her act. She was new, and new learned better than most, and he prayed his luck she had a clean record – better for those more intricate, tedious little plots that Mercer favored.

“Brynjolf, my dear, at your service.” He bowed slightly, taking her arm into the crook of his own. “Is Kat short for something? Most Bretony have long, wispy names.” He guided her past Sapphire, tapping the taller woman's thigh as he passed to warn of their lofty feline guests. His former apprentice grinned and took to the roofs in a matter of moments. Better for muscle than the odd jobs that came through as of late. Still, Bryn had always been fond of the girl.

“Maybe it is.” That coy little smirk crept back into her features, and a small laugh peppered her tone. She gave him a sleepy glance through those unfairly thick lashes. She was holding her cards close to her chest, only letting a peak show through. The assassins had made her nervous and he wondered if she had run-ins with them in the past.

He held open the door with his free hand, letting her easily slip from his shield-arm. They took to the crowded rabble of the Bee & Barb easily enough, seating themselves at a corner table nearest to the open porch. It was not the best spot for secrecy, but Kereeva owed him money beyond the many favors so he did not bother with the worry. Her over large seafoam & blue eyes scanned the crowd as they waited for a pair of pints. The sly little grin still played upon her lips, but there was something else, a turning of gears that was oddly evident on her features. It was as if she were scoping the crowd for easy marks. He knew that move well enough; to any thief it was involuntary, especially if you've been at the job your entire life. And from what he saw in the market, he was convinced she certainly had been.

“So what is a little bit of thing like you doing in Skyrim?” He would take his time with this one, he would need to in order to sway her to his thinking. Even in the short minutes they had been in company, he could tell she would be a touch delicate to convince. Small talk would be best to begin the process. Brynjolf was a master at conversation if nothing else after all.

“Sightseeing,” the girl thanked the barmaid who had brought them a pitcher and two tankards. She took a small sip, mischief now ghosting over her face.

\- - - - -

_Mercer –_

_She's on her way home. Couldn't stop her, though I right tried. Tell that blasted girl she best come back with my horse!_

_\- Bendt_

He crumpled the small note. He should have slit the courier's throat, but Vekel had been standing next to him. Bendt's script was practically a scribble, it was obvious he had rushed and sent out the courier within moments of Katherine’s departure. And if he knew Bendt well enough, which he did, she would already be in Riften having waylaid the man for a day or more before he found her gone. He rubbed the back of his neck. The Bard’s College was supposed to temper her, put a leash on her actions while still allowing her frivolity. She was rash, impulsive – just like he was in his youth. He should not have been so surprised his daughter took after him.

He threw the scrap note in the fire, watching the ends curl and turn to ash. He took a long pull on the spiced wine, trying to settle his mind before the storm would blow through the underground.

“All right, Boss?” Delvin Mallory leaned on the door, looking worse for wear. “Look like some bad news, aye?” He unbuckled the straps across his chest and produced a heavy pouch of coin. Mercer noted that two of his fingers were bandaged, likely broken or slashed open.

“Don't worry about it, Del. Make out good tonight?” The golden coins were many spread over his desk, the shimmer still warming his insides like the first time he had ever seen a septim. He smiled, remembering the first time he showed Little Kat the shining golden coins. She had smiled and screeched, trying to bite through the solid metal. She had no teeth then and Moira was still alive, smiling her crooked smile as the babe screeched and giggled on her lap. Mercer quashed such a memory, shoving it down to a place he could visit once he was dead. There seemed to be a lot of those, of late and many dead friends come up from beyond to torment him a while longer.

“Decent enough, though someone else was there. Don't trust me anymore, Boss?” Delvin looked annoyed and Mercer quirked a ruddy brow. Delvin crossed his arms and searched Mercer for a slip in the facade. There was none that he betrayed, he was Guildmaster after all.

“What do you mean there was someone else?” His heart sunk but not a trace showed on his face.

“Little bit of thing, you know. Red hair, big ol' blue eyes, much -- and I do mean _much_ \-- too young. Didn't speak to her, she was too soddin’ fast.” Delvin shook out his bandaged fingers, spots of red blood were showing through the yellowed gauze. “Had a pretty little knife on her.” Delvin withdrew the blade – silver dagger, black hilt stamped with blackbird silhouetted across a full moon – the very same he had given to Katherine when he sent her north to Solitude. Delvin spun it in his fingers and slammed the sharp end into Mercer's desk. “Looks like your mark, Mercer.” There was an edge to Mallory's voice that Mercer had not heard while home and at rest. It was the same biting tone he reserved for shakedowns – the lad's specialty, really.

_“MERCER! MERCER YOU SON OF A BITCH!”_ Vex's voice rang out through the Cistern, her heavy footfalls coming toward the back offices. She stormed in, fury clear as day on her face. Mercer was glad for the distraction though he still took in a weighted breath. Katherine had come home indeed, by the look of things.

“I told you, I do not work with freelancers. I told you and you still sodding sent one.” Vex paced, hands and eyes wild in all directions. Her fingers curled and uncurled from fist to trembling madness. If she were a dog, her mouth would be foaming but Mercer did not doubt that it could happen still.

“I didn't send anyone, Vex.” Mercer knew, as it pained him to admit, that this was Katherine's doing as well. Moira's face came to mind, soft and ever calm, the smile that spoke volumes. He was sure Katherine had grown to look just like her mother – and take after her too, as it would seem.

“She said you did, knew the signal too. Girl named Moira, red hair, – cheeky little brat she was.” Vex was still flaming as she spoke, though confusion was starting to win out over the rash anger. Mercer kept a neutral face at her pseudonym, even though the choice did not shock him in the least. “Should've strangled her when I had the damn chance.”

“Did you get the maps, Vex?” Business was business, no matter who interfered. It was bad enough he had gotten wind of Karliah resurfacing, now he would have to contend with his daughter mucking up his affairs. He could take no chance that Karliah had not heard about Kat's little adventures – hell, it could even be the Dunmer bitch's doing in the first place. Mercer had to weigh all the options, the path was always threadbare if one knew how to look.

“No, the little bitch ran off with them.” Vex was reeling back toward wrath as she spoke, voice low and serpentine. She was letting it crash through her like a sea raging storm. She was always like that. Maybe Mercer should get rid of her first, it would be most rewarding.

Mercer rubbed at his temples and rolled his neck.

“Where did she go?” Mercer needed to know where his little Kat was now, more so than before. She had run a circle around Del, made off with some coin. That did not worry him. The maps he had sent Vex off to get, however, those were more valuable than Katherine likely realized. Or bloody blazes, she probably did and that was the exact reason she jumped in. How she had convinced a keen eye like Vex to allow her along – gaining her trust and double-crossing her in the end, well, Mercer could not help the small swell of pride in his chest.

“How, by Oblivion, should I know that? She disappeared. I thought she was just done the job but when I went into my bag the maps were gone. Eight months of work Mercer, all fucking gone.”

“Sounds like you were played.” Del spoke through a chortle. “Though how'd she get to your bag, eh Vex? Distracted or something?” There was a lurid way in which Delvin asked that made Vex growl and stomp from the room. Mercer watched her go, gladly.

“Screechin' wench,” muttered Delvin. “Can't blame her, got the wool over me too. Though I'm bettin' it’s something to do with that knife, eh Boss?”


	2. Greenmote

His head swam pleasantly. She was laughing on his arm, pulling him to dance. Colors seemed to explode around them, the singer at the Bee & Barb better than he ever sounded before. The whole place seemed to breathe life and the music filled his head and warmed his skin. Or that could have been her, soft hair tickling under his chin when she scrambled into his lap after a jubilant dance. Her laugh was intoxicating. The real thing, not the prim facade she pulled in the market. It seemed when the tavern doors shut behind them she changed, relaxed. He felt it too, the need to throw out the job for an evening.

“Another ale, my good and kind ser?” She was still humming along to the bard's tune, a little off-key from the drink and the sweetest sound he ever heard.

“Mm, yes I would think.” She slipped away from him and he watched the roll of her hips as she walked. She was … more than he thought and Brynjolf was finding himself distracted. It was like he was a greenboy, gone and found his first whore and his first mead. But, by Talos if it didn't feel so damn good.

The bard picked up again when she came back, precariously balancing one tankard on her head. She smiled with her over large and crooked teeth, dimples and notches appearing on her face and brow. Those eyes were dancing like the music through him and he snatched the brimming mug deftly. He downed the sweet honeyed ale like only a good Nord would and she followed suit. For being so small she really held her liquor.

She whooped and slammed down the tankard, using a hand to fan her face. He flopped those shaggy bangs again. They were feather-soft to his touch. She shut her eyes when his fingers trailed her cheek and the spot where her lashes touched. He let them linger on her neck and she opened her eyes.

“If I didn't know any better I would say you were trying to seduce me.” Her voice was playful.

“Oi lass, maybe if you were ten years older.” He pulled his hand away as though he did not even realize he was touching her face. Her skin was tempting him, the little peek through the collar of her tunic and her small hands, little bony fingers deft as any he had ever seen. And the heat! Like she was made of Balimund's fires inside and out!

“And just how old do you think I am?” She put a hand on either side of him, steadying herself on his chair. She leaned into his face, their noses almost touching. She was searching again, marking the tics and flickers of the mask falling from his face. Gods, those eyes - clearwater blue, little slivers of gold - gorgeous.

“Lass, you look no older than six and ten.” He bumped her nose and felt his stubble scratch against her chin. At this she laughed and nearly doubled over from it.

“A bit off, try five-and-twenty.” She was still laughing when she spoke and brought thumbs to her eyes.

“And here I thought you were a fair decent liar.” Her little laugh was contagious and it plagued his speech.

“Hey now, this face has saved me more than you can imagine. Arkay bless my Mother.” She put a hand to her heart. Those lashes and that grin were there again, egging him on. The drum washed over him, her too, quelling an energetic prelude. “You should never assume a lady’s age, good ser.”

“I meant no offense, my dear, sweet lady.” She seemed to like this game of the genteel and he fed into it fully. 

The lute and singer had picked up again and this time he pulled her onto the floor. They swung together, music swarming around them, through them, as though it was solely theirs. She sang loudly when the bard chose a song of maidens hunting mermaids, a simple Bretony ballad she said her mother used to sing. He noticed then that her voice was crystal, sharp and furious and blessedly beautiful. He wondered if she ever considered the minstrel’s life before. 

She was pulling him in so easily, wrapping him around her fingers and Brynjolf found that he did not much care. There was something about her – more than the skill, the looks, the endearing way she moved – it was something else that tightened within his chest. For the first time in his life he found himself wanting more than the perfect job, the perfect ploy. Only business before had spurred him in such a way and he had long ago convinced himself that only fools fell in love – the mere thought made his skin shiver. And yet, here he was, dancing in the revelry and thinking only of ways to make this girl smile.

The bard slowed his song and another man joined him with a harp. They began a slowly numbered beat that picked up with each twang on the first's lute. She was pressed to him, small hands light on his shoulders while his wrapped around full hips. The drink had flushed her skin, parted her lips and fluttered those lashes into feathers. The bard's voice rang out and she joined him, bringing herself closer to him so that he felt – really felt – the invigorating heat that poured from her skin.

“Down beside where the riverbed sleeps,” she rang out, “is a man not knowing how he should feel, and mocked by the wave that beats the water’s edge.” She rolled her hips under his fingers, the softness of her robes clinging to her sweat-stained skin. “There, for the grace of God go I. If I ever harked another like thee again, I would drown myself beneath your name --” Brynjolf needed no further invitation and he lifted her off her feet. His lips met hers without reservation and she melted into his kiss. Arms tensed around his neck and the taste of her, honey and spice and something else, something unfamiliar that sent his head into a spin.

\- - - - -

The next morning his entire body felt as though a dragon had eaten, digested and spat his broken body back out. His limbs felt craggy, his head not screwed straight on his shoulders and when he opened his eyes the light assaulted them harshly. Tonilia was in a nearby chair, head in hand and fast asleep. He could feel the slime of sweat covering his skin and was thankful that the Cistern seemed without sound. He sat up, feeling acutely the raging, hairsplitting ache that flowed through his head. He had not had a hangover quite like this in years.

“Who'd ya' meet, Bryn? She pretty?” Vex leaned on the door frame, arms crossed easily over her chest. She smirked, showing just a bit of teeth. There was a snide little touch of jealousy in her words, but Brynjolf could not bring himself to care.

“No less, Vex.” Brynjolf ran shaking fingers through his hair, itching the tingles on his scalp. He was in no mood to deal with her blighted nonsense so early in the morning.

“Must've been to pull something like that on you.” Vex casually glanced at her nails, the usual scrutiny not there.

“Pull what on me?” His skin itched. Like it never had before. Like tiny little bugs just under the skin.

“Greenmote. Didn't think you liked it so crazy.”

“Greenmote?” Brynjolf no doubt now wore a most curious expression. “Actual greenmote?” By Ysmir, his scalp was practically crawling.

“Indeed. None too many know where to acquire such a thing and less even believe it real. So, who was she to keep you out for a week?” Vex came fully into the room and leaned on Tonilia's chair, stirring the woman from her sleep.

“A week – _a week?_ ” He had blacked out before but this – “That's ... impossible.” He rubbed a hand on his chest and felt the unwashed grime.

“Yes, a week, dung-brain. Del found you in the hills, naked as your nameday and screechin’ like a sore maiden.” Vex sneered. “Let me guess; little bit of thing, shiny clean shock of red hair, button little face – just your type, really.” The Cheshire grin grew wide on Vex's face. “Might have called herself Moira, or some such too, I'll bet.”

“Kat. Saw her picking pockets in the market.” His head felt like horses trampled it. “Went for drinks and –” His nostrils flared, “When did she even have a chance to –”

“She didn't. Greenmote don't mix well with the drink. Potency gets screwed if you don't measure right.” Vex stifled a laugh at some private knowledge. “Some folk call the shit Sheogorath's Kiss.” Vex cawed and choked down a cackle. “Smart girl, too much and she would have killed you.”

“I …” The night he last remembered was hazy, only little splashes remained. He remembered drinking, trying to tease her name away from secrecy, dancing – By the ruttin’ Nine, he had kissed her, a lot in fact now that he recalled. How or why did not matter, but he had been all over her, she all over him – “Shit. Shit shit shit.” He ran pale fingers through his hair. “That wretched little bitch –”

“Bet your coin is gone too,” Vex interrupted. “She got Delvin, gnarled up his hands.” Vex's tone dropped harsh, the smile with it. “Me too, that map job Mercer had me on for months? Yeah, nasty girl got off with them.” Vex’s face was an ever-changing canvas of emotion. For such a great little sneak she really had an awful poker face. 

“And how did Mercer take that, Vex? Flaming pissed, I’ll bet.”

“Aye he is, and I'll reckon he'll come for you next, Bryn. Been going out his mind since you've been on your, ah … trip.” He hardly heard her, jumping to search his pockets – Vex was right, all his coin and little black book were missing. Too many curses for Kat and her next few generations flooded and clouded his vision. 

“A freelancer, you think?” Brynjolf had suspected as much. But the way she spoke seemed … different than the brigands and unaffiliated thieves that normally passed through town. She was far too practiced, the mask fit comfortably in place and she was good. Damn good, even. There was nothing petty about her.

“Aye, I think that's what Mercer expects.”

“You're both wrong.” Tonilia said sleepily. She rubbed at her eyes. “You two stay away from her. Don't be bringing up the old blood.” The older Redguard got up from her chair and sauntered from the room, ignoring the gaping faces following her exit. Neither could guess what she meant, but the woman never spoke anything less than the brash truth – a fine rarity among thieves.

“Old blood?” Brynjolf turned to Vex.

“Been sayin’ that since Del dragged you in.” Vex shrugged and paid little mind to the comment. “Tut, tutting you while you slept.” Vex pushed herself from the wall and turned to go. “Best get dressed, Bryn. Mercer’ll be wanting to talk.”

\- - - - -

Father's house had changed in the twenty years she had been away, though it still smelled like wintersend and spice, home-cooking and heavy incense. The guards were practically asleep when she slid her rusted key into the lock. It opened as though the flimsy cut of metal had not been in a dresser collecting dust for over two decades. The two men Father had stationed did not move an inch, even when she slipped past in full torchlight. It was all too easy and she wondered if she ought to be more wary. She cursed herself and her task at hand – creeping into a veritable den of thieves was tricky and foolhardy enough, Guildmaster's home more so, even if she was family. But he himself had taught her all the secret ways, Mother even more, so who really could he blame?

The fires were kept low, even past midnight and it seemed her father had not yet come home. That certainly had not changed. She wondered idly if he even slept here after what happened, she thought she never would be able to, what with the walls feeling like they were closing in around her. And he had looked so sad to see her off to Solitude. But he did so easily enough, her mind supplied. She had needed him desperately then and yet he had Uncle Bendt take her away three days after the fire. Three sodding days, for a five year old girl who had just lost her mother. Bastard, she thought bitterly.

She crossed a hall and into an old study she remembered. Mother's favorite room with the wide stained glass windows. The walls were bare now, but before there had been paintings and tapestries, all of her mother's making. She would be there every day, without fail, stitching and humming or flitting around her canvas. The same red hair Katherine herself had, Mother had as well. The long curls took wind even in the slightest breeze, enveloping the petite woman in soft tendrils.

And it was not that Katherine wished to disturb her father's business dealings, though the acts themselves had been fairly easy, to tell the truth. Those fools Delvin Mallory and Vex were slow, not worth half a salt she was sure her father had given them. The woman, Vex, had said she worked near eight months on reconnaissance. 

Kat had spent eight days.

Brynjolf on the other hand – he was something else. She had almost felt bad about poisoning him, but Father's second-in-command was the biggest threat to her homecoming. There was far too much at stake what with rebel Jarls and assassins mucking around. Putting on that display in the market had been a masterful work and luck it seemed was on her side when the assassins had tracked her this far south. Getting him into the tavern had been the only kink she had yet to work out. She shook her head at how easily it had come together as she crept into Father's office.

“Welcome home, Katherine.” The knife bit warningly into her throat and a hand moved her shoulders to make her face him. He held the blade steady. “You've been busy.” He looked at her with the same tired pale eyes he always had, but the paleness had gone bitter and cold after so many years. She wondered if that was her fault or Mothers, or by Oblivion, his own design.

“Busy? _No, no_ – efficient, yes.” She turned her chin in defiance, smiling to show none of the fear that coursed so fitfully through her. This was not the man she remembered, pockets always full of sweets and tired wrinkles in his brow. Mother may have been there more, but he – he showed her everything she knew so well now. She idolized the man, more than she would ever admit aloud and certainly more than she hated him. Daughters would always resent their fathers, Uncle Bendt had once said. Resent and love are usually oft’ the same with kin, girl. Don’t blame him for his failings, he can’t rightly help himself. 

“So mine have said.” He withdrew the blade and bade her to sit in his parlor. She followed, albeit gingerly, and lounged warily on the cushioned seat. It may have been three years since she had seen him, but she would not let him lord over her. He simply did not deserve to, even in her greatest idolatry.

“You'll be wanting these, I assume?” She pulled the ancient maps from her bag, carefully setting the decaying parchment between them. “Your girl Vex is a bit daft, no?” Father's eyes widened at the sight. Had he not thought she would turn them over? She had done this for him, to prove herself, to come home. She smiled easily, proud even of her shill, however foolish.

“Kath –”

“And this too, aye Father?” She produced the small bag of greenmote from her breast pocket, a little lighter than when her journey south had began, but certainly enough for what the stuff was worth. “I am sure Uncle Bendt wrote to you.” She had seen the courier on the road but did not stop him. Father had taught her best – show your cards but always keep two in your sleeve. “Consider it a gift, a show of good faith.” She crossed her arms and relaxed her posture, just enough to radiate a veneer of calm he doubtlessly did not believe. Still, effort was effort all the same. 

“ _Katherine Marjorie Frey_ ,” she winced at his bellow of her given name. “Why did you leave Solitude?” He did not take his eyes from her procured items. “You were supposed to –”

“Supposed to what, Father? Stay safe? Stay out of trouble? Sing pretty little songs to drunken sots?” She could have laughed but that would definitely be inappropriate considering the circumstances. “Fat good chance of that, what with Jarls murdering Kings.” She muttered aside and pushed all thoughts of Torryg aside to a place she could think on later. Much later. Later as in dead. Father never cared much for politics, and from what she had seen in the city today he left most to Lady Maven Black-Briar and her idiot children. Katherine still got chills when she thought of Sibbi. She could only imagine how he had grown up.

“Yes, Katherine, all of the above. Why do you think I sent you there?” She knew why and she knew if she spoke it aloud it would earn her a hearty slap. Her heart had entertained a jovial reunion but that was naught to be had. He kept the blade close, she realized, and the hilt a press groove in his hands. He turned it to her and she took it, sliding it easy into its sheath.

“To keep me from the family business. From Maven Black-Briar.” She spoke the droll half-truth, the safe kind of truth her father always preferred to keep nailing into her head. But Katherine still had dreams of the fire, of Mother, and she often wondered if Father did too. His face held new lines, his hair was fading to a thick wash of salt-and-pepper gray and he was not the same man she remembered. She could curse her own idle fancy. What good had she honestly thought would have come from this? If she had capacity, she would dash her own head on the rocks. Coming here had been a mistake, she could see that now. 

“Then I will ask you again, why did you leave Solitude?” He steepled his fingers and regarded her with the same hard stare he had once reserved for his men. It sent a shiver unbidden down her spine. “Bendt always wrote you were happy there.”

“I cannot come home, Father?” Because of Ulfric Stormcloak, she wanted to say. Because that limey bastard tricked her, made her part of his bloody scheme. Because Elisif had set her up. Because she had allowed her willful heart to lead instead of her mind -- a cold and calculating thing she was just starting to realize was even there. But Father could not know this, no one could. It would mean her death.

“Katherine,” he sighed. “Little Kat, it isn’t that. It is not safe for you here.” She wanted to laugh and cry and tell him the truth - it’s not safe for her anywhere. Not unless by some miracle Ulfric manages to win his stupid civil war. But against Imperials and Thalmor? Katherine had faith in the Nords, especially their military prowess -- Bolgeir had shown that much. But against the whole damn Empire? Or the whole of the Aldmeri Dominion? There was a point where prowess would ultimately be not enough. 

She was lucky to not have to retort, as the bookshelf swung aside behind him. The secret door lead down a winding narrow staircase into the Cistern – the Thieves' Guild base of operations. When Katherine was a little girl, it was a castle underground. A secret place made just for her. An aging Redguard woman appeared and Kat's spirits lifted immediately.

“Auntie?” She said and the Redguard woman had a flash of recognition – and a slight green tint in her cheeks. “Auntie Tonilia!” Katherine exclaimed and leapt to her feet. She wrapped her arms around the woman heartily and felt the kind of relief she had not felt since she was a little girl. Tonilia returned her hug and pet her long hair, just as she used to years and years ago.

“Shit, I knew this smelled like you. Kitten, what in Oblivion did you do to Bryn?”


	3. Storm Coming

Three days passed in a blur. His head still reeled from the mythical dose he had unwittingly received. Mercer had not come to the Cistern since the day he had woken up. He had no idea what kind of trouble he had gotten himself into for a full week, but no guards had come calling and even Maven was quiet on the subject. Perhaps he did indeed spend a full span in the woods, caterwauling to the stars. Brynjolf had no idea what he would say to this … Kat, if indeed he saw her again. Tonilia had been tight-lipped about the girl, even when under heavy questioning by Brynjolf and Vex. Delvin had even asked around the guards but no one could even seem to remember the sprightly little Breton girl. Something was up with her, something big for even the raunchy Redguard woman he so adored to keep quiet.

He had read the same passage in his book too many times without registering the words. He wondered if that was an effect of the drug or if he was simply too distracted to work. The Falmer text was so old the pages were falling apart. Tonilia had handed it off to him, like to keep Kat out of his mind, but it was not working. Not in the least. He could curse this Maester Nelos and damn him an eternity in Oblivion.

And Brynjolf could see that the others were all a-buzz with this newcomer who had pulled wool over the top three agents. It was a low blow, a considered slap to Mercer himself, and the three now shared a rookie mistake. Brynjolf had told Mercer his story, every detail as he had spent the most time with this horrid little woman. All the while the Guildmaster looked as though he would retch. Or skin him alive - perhaps both. But though the fire burned in his gilded eyes, he spoke not a negative word. He didn’t even ask after the damnable girl.

“Any luck, Bryn?” Vex lay her head on the table, old maps sticking slightly to her cheek.

“No. You?” He leaned back, motioning to Vekel for another drink.

“These maps … I can barely read them. The ones that wretch got hold of were better, cleaner. Del is looking for a scholar or some such, but he doubts someone like that even exists outside of Winterhold.” Vex took a long pull on her tankard. She smoothed the parchment edges again, drawing her magnifier over the western borders.

“This book reads like the Edda. It's,” Brynjolf scratched at his temples erratically. “It's just a damn riddle!” He slammed a fist on the table and the reverberation made residual color swirl in his eyes. “Damn it all,” he put a trembling hand over face. He felt the bile rise in his throat. His first full day awake had been spent over the pier, green as the weeds. And more than that, he found it more than a little troubling that he could taste plum rather vividly despite only ever tasting one when he was just a boy.

“Still bothering you?” Vex had returned to studying the ancient maps, the lines of borders long since changed and rethought. The markers on the near-rotted parchment showed Dwemer borders which put the map as older than the First Men. “Looks like you're going to retch again.”

“It's nothing, just … moved my neck too fast I think.” Vex wordlessly slid him her waterskin which he took and greedily gulped down. It softened the pounding behind his eyes almost immediately. The little trails of light stopped clinging to idle movement, something else he should be thankful for.

“I'm telling you, don't send her back. She will just run again.”

Vex and Brynjolf perked at the conversation moving toward them. The Cistern held no whisper, turning all into echoes. There was no privacy in the sewers. Tonilia's voice was not as tired as it normally was and the heavy gait that favored the right side could only be Mercer.

“What choice do I have? She nearly ruined everything.”

The Guildmaster sounded anxious, like Brynjolf had never heard him. His leather armor creaked and the sound reverberated on the stone walls of the sewers. Brynjolf did not know a time when Mercer was ever the twitchy sort, but there it was – the tapping of his boot tip, the rolling of his shoulders and neck and the shuffling of pacing feet. The bitterness crept back in, the kind like being beaten can bring.

“She only acted as you taught her. What did you expect?”

Even Vex would have heard that – the very idea Mercer had an apprentice, someone he seemed to give more than a damn about was foreign. Tonila knew this too. Yes, it was all coming together – this girl, this Kat must have been Mercer's apprentice once upon a time. Her tale should be easy after that. It would be a story of betrayal, murder and the sort books and minstrel songs were penned about.

“I expected her to stay out of trouble.”

“And for a while, she did. But if the rumors are true, trouble found her.”

“And how am I supposed to protect her now? If Maven finds out –”

“She already knows, you can bet your coin on that.”

The Guildmaster took in an audible sigh, shuffled his feet again.

“Then it's done already, she has to go back. And she has to stay there this time, or so help me –”

“Calm yourself, Mercer. She just wanted to impress you. And honestly, she did good. Really good.”

“This is not what I wanted for her.”

“I think it's a little late for that.”

Vex and Brynjolf shared a look at the crack in Mercer's voice. They had often joked that the man was capable of no emotion, but the moment this girl appeared there was a discernable shift. If Brynjolf were the fanciful type, and he was to some degree, this Kat meant something to the Guildmaster. A lover? No – too young, even at five-and-twenty. Perhaps an adversary? A former apprentice seeking retribution for some wrong done to her? That seemed more appropriate for Mercer. After all, the girl stole from Delvin, cut up his hands, played Vex like a fiddle and, of course, let us not forget the poison. He was more than a little bitter over that incident, to be sure. Yes, Brynjolf was sure as he was tall that this was all an act of revenge, likely planned over years.

He, like the rest had heard the story of Karliah’s betrayal -- how Mercer had been only able to save himself from the woman’s fiery wrath. She killed her lover, decimated the Guild’s numbers and plunged them into an unlucky streak to rival all ages past. He knew the story, much as everyone else, though to hear Mercer tell it was something else entirely. Not all the Guild knew how Karliah’s betrayal served him worse than Gallus, her own lover, when the Dunmer burned down the former Riftweald Estate. It had been rebuilt two years later, but from Mercer’s own voice it seemed he lost much more than a home. Could this Kat be tied to that? Possible, though she would have been just a child.

\- - - - -

Katherine lay by the fire, soaking in the heat and the sun from the open windows. She had been forbidden to leave the house since she had arrived one week and three days earlier. She had cleaned the dust off her old books and tea sets and had time enough to shine and sharpen her blades & clean and stitch her armor. That had taken a day and a half of her time. Father's library was so minuscule compared to the vast and endless shelves back home in Solitude. That was all she truly missed from the capital and the stuffy Bards’ College. Father had put guards at her door and she had tried to get them to let her leave but they would not even look at her, let alone speak. She wondered if Father had cut out their tongues, she would not have been surprised.

And so it was that she was sprawled on the floor, books strewn around her and eyes shut. She was not sleeping, but lost deep in thought. Coming home had been a mistake, she knew, but she was glad to be there either way. The old manse still smelled like Mother – lilacs and incense – and in every corner she found little tributes to her. Mother's favorite vase still sat in the main hall, cracked around the lip when Kat had knocked it over running past when she was only two. Mother’s dresses were still in the tall wardrobe, all of imported silk from the Summerset Isles. Even in the vast and endless winter of Skyrim, Mother had always run hot. Katherine wore one now, a royal blue gown with a trim of fur around the collar and sleeves. It was comfortable and though it did not protect against the blustering winds, it was perfect. Kat too, always ran like a boiling kettle.

Kat sat up when she heard the suspicious shuffling outside her window. Her eyes narrowed at the sound, now intermixed with grunting and the racket of steel scraping on stone, the noise of one climbing the high garden walls. Would someone really risk breaking into her father's house? She did not want to venture a look unarmed, so she palmed her gilded dagger. She stood to the side of the wide, open window and sucked in a small breath. Her body felt slack in all her joints while the muscles were taut and ready to strike, should the need arise. She heard Bolgeir’s voice in her head, telling her to breathe shallow and slow, conserve, think, watch and listen. 

The figure clamored inside the window, landing flat on his back. She was on him in an instant, blade poised at his throat. He put his hands up in surrender and his eyes pleaded long before he could form the words in his mouth.

“Who are you?” She hissed – she took quick stock of his appearance; steel and leather armor, hood and partial mask, had he been armed she would have made him for an assassin and killed him on the spot. He carried no blade, no bow and his armor seemed a size or two too big.

“A messenger, my lady, please.” The man pleaded, sweat already glistening on his brow. She dug the blade harder against the soft skin of his throat. He was a warning; a message in and of himself from the two cats she knew had been following her since she arrived in Riften.

“And you do not use doors? You do not send a note?” Her knees pressed into his ribs, cutting off air little by little.

“I was told to give this to you and no one else. Please my lady, I meant no offense.” The rat-faced courier paled even further and swallowed a thick lump in his throat. His hands shook and his eyes held a spot of yellow around the rim - a sure sign of a sugar tooth. There were plenty that kept to the shadows in Solitude’s many winding alleys and she had grown all too familiar with noticing and avoiding the type.

“Who gave you this message?”

“A m-man in the m-market, he wore a hood.” He carefully moved his hand to the pouch tied at his neck. She pulled it free before his shaking fingers could reach it. Inside were a small pouch of coin and a note, folded carefully and it smelled of oiled leather.

“You may go.” She sheathed her dagger and allowed him to stand. “Through the front door, however. You can explain to the guards why you were in my room. That is, if they allow you to speak at all.” She watched him scurry away without his money, only thankful he was alive. She wondered if she was too harsh, but who in their right mind scales the manse walls of the Thieves' Guildmaster? Only desperate fools, she surmised.

_‘We know.’_

The note was unsigned save for a black hand-print. She knew the sigil, any child in Tamriel knew the horror stories of the Dark Brotherhood and their all-seeing master Sithis. How he could find you, even if you left no witness alive. Her hands shook even long after the note had been reduced to ash in the fire. Was it Elisif’s hand? Or Ulfric Stormcloak? She could not hazard a guess, but she knew well enough she had been followed since she ran off from Solitude’s safe, high walls. Father had been mad enough at her interference with his business, and would be worse if he knew about this.  
She ran hands through her hair, the urge to pull it all from her head consuming her. Father was right, she should have stayed tucked away behind the high walls of Solitude.

\- - - - -

“We wonder my lady,” Na'Kiva spoke.

“What is it you intend for the Frey girl?” Na'Rasha added.

The twin cats lounged in Maven Black-Briar's study polishing their blades. They were utterly silent in their movements and only the fire crackling and the sound of their whetstones filled the room. The matriarch had long grown accustomed to their odd speech, always speaking in turn as though they shared a single mind. They were efficient and brutal, just as she had come to expect from her Brotherhood.

“I intend for you to watch her.” Maven fiddled with the corner of the stock reports. “Nothing more.”

“Tch,” muttered Na'Kiva.

“We are not spies.” Her sister finished.

“I pay you to do as I ask.” Maven sighed.

The cats' tails wriggled in annoyance but they deigned to not answer to that. Maven paid for a lot of things – silence, secrecy, favors and death – she did not need opinions to factor into cost. She knew the gravity of quiet & uninterrupted business, and it never lasted long. The Frey girl back in town was more than enough of a sign that the winds were changing in Riften. She wondered how much the girl knew and what she was doing back here after Maven had gone through such pained lengths to get her away. Maven had the Guild and the Brotherhood under her thumb, easy business once Mercer had eliminated all of Gallus' men. Only that gray-skinned bitch Karliah still remained, but alone, she simply just was not a threat. And the Dunmer wanted the Frey girl more than Maven, of that she was certain.

Maven Black-Briar was nothing if not patient – the stones would fall where they would, just as they always had before. Karliah, Mercer, the little Frey girl … they were of no concern and would likely kill each other before the end. Maven preferred business that way, less to clean off your hands at the end of the day.


	4. Confined & Confounded

“I said _no_ Katherine. And I mean it.” Mercer slammed his hands on his desk.

“It's been almost a month! A month! I haven't been outside this house in a month.” His daughter paced like a caged animal in front of his desk. Her startlingly red hair was longer, and her feet were bare. “Those blasted guards won't even let me out in the gardens!” Katherine threw her arms up and focused those pale blues on him. For an instant, he saw Moira, her mother, the woman he never would stop mourning. Little Kat had really grown to look so much like her.

“You brought this on yourself, girl. It's too dangerous to even take one step outside this house.” Mercer was growing tired of this argument. It was not that he wished to confine her, in fact he wanted the very opposite. He would rather she never had to be sent away. But the whispers never told lies and Karliah was close, her little signs cropping up everywhere. Maven would come calling for him soon enough too, he was sure. And those rumors from the road - the little redhead bard who made a precarious friendship with the rebel Jarl. They say someone had a handful of greenmote. They say someone other than Queen Elisif was in High King Torygg’s bed the night before he was murdered.

“Then let me go underground. Please. I can help –”

“This again? They cannot know about you either. You think there's any honor among thieves? Not a single one holds any loyalty to me, only their precious purses. It's bad enough that they are all still talking about what you've done. Some are even right pissed ready to bury you.” 

That turn in his daughter's lip used to be his favorite part of Moira's face. She had such a way for business, could make anyone talk or give up their own flesh & blood. But Moira was haughty and Karliah never forgot his wife’s transgression. And now he had Katherine to contend with -- his only daughter, his only child whom he sent away to foster in the unforgiving north. Solitude, so chock full of simpering nobles had changed her. As a little girl, Katherine preferred bows, swords and heroes to the other girls’ love of dolls and dresses. But the vision before him was made so full of a lady-in-waiting. Her hair was pulled back simply, but the braid itself was not. It was intricate and curling, laced intermittently with ribbons of gold and blue - they matched her eyes. Her dress was simple at first glance - green and white, loose and made for the Summer - but on a second, one could see the lace and beadwork were painstakingly wrought. He remembered when he had that frock made for Moira, how it illuminated her eyes and porcelain skin. Katherine was no different, a mirror image of the woman Mercer once loved. 

“You need me. I know more about Falmer than anyone in your employ. And, I know you're planning something. Something big.” She crossed her arms. Mercer would have been proud of her efficiency had she been anyone else but his daughter. This life, and the one she had already lived sheltered and naïve to the rest of the world's machinations, none of it was what he had hoped her to see. If he could change one thing, just one, it would have been to never have met the woman that would become his wife. Gallus had been Moira's friend, she had been his closest adviser – and she stole the Key anyway. She riddled the Guild with this plight that he had paid for over and over and over again. Had he only seen the signs before, perhaps he could have stopped her. Maybe then she would still be alive.

“I’ll need more than children’s songs, girl.” He said scathingly.

“I know more than just songs, Father.” The chill in her tone was that of looking in a mirror.

“You think you know my business, child?” He could not help the proud sneer that painted his face, she had taken more after him than she knew or wanted to think. Twenty-five years ago he killed Gallus to protect his family. He watched Karliah slip away, knowing the bitter truth. He had not seen her revenge coming from miles off, so much so was his love for Moira. And Gallus’ lover got her retribution, tenfold and in blood. Someone had to take the blame, and who else could have but him? Moira may have taken the Key, usurped its untold power, but he cleaned the mess left in wake. He killed Gallus and paid in kind. And all of it because of a lousy fucking job they were still trying to finish. And now his own daughter wanted to carry the mantle too.

“You are looking for The Eyes.” She matched his knowing smirk with a haughty one of her own. Oh how little you know girl, he wanted to tell her. “Your man having any luck with that riddle book?” She paused, waiting for a flash or fall in his features. He did not let any of it show, the raging torrent in his blood would have to be quelled for now. He would do what he had always done to protect his family – guild and blood alike. “I doubt he is, whole bit reads like the Edda. Unless, of course, you actually know what to look for.” Mercer sighed – she was half right, Brynjolf had been complaining he could not read the old Maester's notes without feeling like he was in lessons again. Time was no longer an ally as much as it pained him to admit. He would need to acquiesce.

“Fine. But _by the Eight_ , if you kiss him again I'll have your neck after I break his.”

Mercer watched her triumphant glower saunter from his sight. He heard her bare feet pad on the wood floors and up the stairs. She knew enough, he would give her that, but the details were wrong. She had no idea how personal it all really was nor did she have a clue what was truly at stake. All she saw was a way in. He had only himself to blame for that, if he were honest. She was his daughter, tried & true, even after twenty some odd years apart. Mercer had not known his own parents and when he had been a young man he always said he would never do the same to his own. His face fell at the vision of the young man who still had a future -- the boy who had based his life and all the inner workings on hope alone. Where had he gone? When was the moment that all ended? There were far too many instances.

And maybe that was the point; the paths he took for hope and for wild adventure had led him here. Perhaps they were not the right choices, perhaps he had doomed them all.

\- - - - -

Mercer's boot in his side opened his eyes. It had been a long night. He and Delvin had been watching the Goldenglow estate for any late night deliveries. There had been none. There had not been even a light out of place in the windows or any movement by guards or Aringoth alike. It felt like he had just lay down and fallen asleep when the pointed leather toe was digging into his ribs. He knew Mercer was speaking to him but his words were lost on his ears.

“Aye, aye I'm getting up.” He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes and moving hair that had stuck to his face. He dreamed incessantly of Kat and that night. Every time he closed his eyes, she was there, face contorted like demons and laughing hysterics. Little snaps of his missing week came and went – howling like wolves at the moon, bathing naked in ice cold streams, he was even reasonably sure there had been some trading with giants - a painted goat for a bowl of hot cheese. His stomach churned at the mere thought and he still tasted plum. She was there, some of the time, though he was unsure if she had even been there at all.

“In my office, Brynjolf. Now.” Mercer seemed angrier than usual. In the fifteen years he had been with the Guild, the man had never once come to rouse any of them from sleep. And his sharp tone spoke volumes of trouble. Rune and Thrynn had been awoken by the absurdity as well and both gave Brynjolf pitiable looks. He splashed water on his face and found a clean shirt, the actions clearing his head of the dream.

Mercer was bent over a stack of parchment when Brynjolf entered the backroom office. He seemed to be muttering to himself and only looked up when he took a sip of the hot tea on his desk. It was a small porcelain cup, inlaid with gold and pink flowers. The sight was … unnerving, to say the least.

“Have a seat, Bryn.” He seemed tired, like he had not slept in days. The hunt for The Eyes had taken their toll on the Guild and Brynjolf was beginning to wonder if chasing such a legend would sooner bring their end rather than a large cache of gold. Things were bad enough with Maven's bloody choke hold. But Brynjolf was no fool and to question Mercer – even as his second-in-command it would be certainly so much more than foolish.

“What's wrong?” Brynjolf crossed his arms, willing the last dregs of sleep to fall away.

“Would you like some tea?” Brynjolf could feel his eyebrows arc.

“In fifteen years you have never once offered me tea.”

“This is not an easy thing.” He could not believe it, but there it was, Mercer was actually nervous. “I have a favor to ask of you.” To say that he and Brynjolf were friends would be a misnomer, but not far off. Associates, comrades in business – that they were, but definitely never friends. There was no such thing among thieves.

“All right?” Brynjolf kept his face even as could be, not wanting to add to what seemed to be a great weight on Mercer's shoulders.  
“I'm bringing in outside help on the translations.” Mercer rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. “I need you to swear that this does not leave this room.”

“All right, but why the fuss? If it's just some scholar –”

“Swear it.”

“Okay, okay – I swear, no one will know.”

“Good.” Mercer relaxed, albeit only slightly. “Katherine – come on in.”

This time, her waist-length red hair was tied in a functional braid. She wore a flowing satin gown, dyed a pale green that offset the clearwater blue of her eyes. She had thick leather bound tomes in her arms, more than it looked she could carry and her feet were bare. She looked a different girl – no, that was not right – a different woman than he had last seen.

“Brynjolf, this is Katherine.” Mercer took in a heavy sigh. “I believe you have already met my daughter.”

Brynjolf nearly knocked his chair over to stand. She smirked, letting only a glimmer of the adept pickpocket shine through. He could not help the blinding flash of anger roil inside him at the moment she crossed the threshold.

“You … She tried to kill me!” He hissed.

“I did not try to kill you, you big oaf. I poisoned you. There is a difference.” She cocked her head to the side. “And you seem to have recovered splendidly.” Those big, enrapturing eyes made him seethe further and made his teeth set into a grind.

“Stop it.” Mercer cut in to their matched and weighted stares. “Just get the job done. If you want to beat it out of one another, do so later.” Mercer sighed, again. “You can use the study upstairs. If anyone asks what you're up to Bryn -”

“I'm to tell them nothing. I get it, Mercer.” His voice felt like teeth gnashing in his skull.

\- - - - -

“Bloody greenmote.” Brynjolf muttered as they started the ascent up the secret stairs to Mercer's estate.

“Yes, greenmote. Not so easy to come by, I'll have you know.” She was taking far too much pleasure in this. “Sorry about that, by the way.” She tucked her pile of tomes closer to her chest, appearing, by all accounts, to actually regret her actions. Brynjolf did not believe her. Not a single bit.

“Just who are you? Katherine, Kat, Moira – seems you have more names than eyes lass.”

“Call me what you wish.” The smile was still holding her face, but it was just as the mask she donned in the market the first time he saw her – a ruse and nothing more. Brynjolf had long lost interest in picking out all her pieces, so he did not press for an explanation. She seemed almost disappointed.

She took them through the bookshelf door and he was instantly assaulted with the smell of fresh baked pie and the overbearing warmth of a blazing fire. She put the books she was carrying on the desk and moved to put a kettle over the flames. In fifteen years he had only been inside Riftweald Manor twice, and always in Mercer’s company. She had moved through the passages and halls as though she had been there her entire life. Brynjolf cursed himself – concerning himself with this woman was folly, nothing more.

“How far have you gotten with the translations?” She seemed to sense his need for business over pleasure. That heady lilt in her voice was gone and only shrewd, tactful knowledge remained in place. She stoked the fire.

“Not very. The notes scrawled in the margins are old and worn, I can't tell the cipher save for every three words.” He flipped the pages of the book on top of her pile. They were filled with a curling script and each page dated – it was her journal, he realized, and he slammed shut the cover. Stamped into the doe-soft leather was a black bird silhouette across a full moon. The sigil seemed familiar, like he should know it as well as he knew his own face, but he could not place it.

“I have … a long-standing fascination with the Falmer and I have spent the past few years researching them alongside my mentor.” She reached for a set of cups from a high shelf, they matched the dainty cup Mercer had been drinking from. “Cup of tea?” She offered.

“Is it poisoned?” He smiled despite himself, he was still angry though the warmth of the room and the sight of her again seemed to sluice it from his skin. She was a deadly, poisonous trap despite that soft exterior. He wanted to slap his own face for the unwarranted memories of her flush against him, blush lips on his – he shook his head as she came back to the table.

“Only if you want it to be.” She matched his grin with one of her own. She poured two cups and sat across from him, pulling the largest of the tomes to her. “The Falmer are the most interesting I think, in that they have been walking Nirn longer than even the Daedra –”

For all her skill, Katherine seemed more at ease in front of a book than on the other end of some louses’ pocket. Brynjolf had been listening to her tell of the Falmer and Dwemer, their long wars and enslavement and the eventual fall of the long lost races of Tamriel. He wondered where she came from, clearly it was not the rundown ragged streets of his own youth. The dress she wore had gone out of fashion years ago and was more suited to a humid summer day rather than the blistering cold outside. Brynjolf shivered every now and again from the wind that came traipsing through her open window.

“You're going to catch your death dressed like that, lass.” He stood and rubbed furiously at his shoulders. He had not expected to sit in an icebox all day, nose to the proverbial grind.

She ignored him and twirled her hair around her little finger. He closed the window and returned to his own hardback leather chair. He watched her read a few lines and scratch a note into the margin of the page. She would then flip open another book, scan with those knobby, bony fingers and mutter about this researcher and that scholar, all the names sounded long winded after a while. How did Mercer find this one? Who was she to him? These questions rankled his mind and made his ears itch to find the answer.

“You are staring at me, messere.” Katherine had stopped her manic fiddling through her books and those icy blues were fixated on him. “Something on your mind?” Her hard stare, the one that said there was work to be done, made him feel like he just jumped through a crack in the ice. He shivered involuntarily.

“Why did you poison me?” The question had been on his mind since she waltzed into Mercer's office from the secret stair – and that was not the only one.

“Sport.” She turned another page in her book, knowing smile spreading back on her full lips.

“ _Sport?_ ” How many moments would it take to lunge across the table and wrap his hands around her small pale neck? "Bloody hells," How long would he have to squeeze until she was dead?

“You did make it rather easy you know, laying it on so thick.” She looked up at him as though this were the best and most plain explanation.

“Sodding greenmote.” Brynjolf's hands shook. The very idea, it was simply unthinkable.

“Look, let it go. I am sure it is not the worst thing that has ever happened to you.”

“I lost a bloody week, girl.” His mouth went dry against the flood of plum and his stomach turned to knots just thinking about it.

“Kiss enough strangers and more than that could happen.” She scoffed and set down her quill.

“Poison people on regular basis, do you lass?”

“Had to know what I was selling, right? Best to give it a test.”

The mask had come back and Brynjolf wondered how she made him seethe so easily and at the drop of a hat. He was known for patience, it was why Mercer had made him Second. The rage that swelled set his blood to a foaming boil and his thin, precarious threads were being stretched far too tight.

“Of course, a test.” He threw an errant hand in the air.

“Do you take everything so personally?”

“Are you always so infuriating? So reckless?”

“I have heard that in the past, once or twice.” A thin red brow shot up into her forehead. He took in a shuddering breath and smoothed back his hair.

“Isn't that dress a bit old for your tastes, lass?” Brynjolf deadpanned. It was clear he would get no real answer for her actions. He bent back down into the book in front of him. Falmer. Dwemer. Ciphers and the sodding Eyes – all of it confounded him. Every single bit seemed too tedious and wasteful of time. Despite that, it was easier to focus on the endless script in blotted ink than to speak to her.

“It was my mother's.” She kept on twirling the soft ends of her braid, kicking her crossed legs back and forth. Every minute action infuriated him. It was like she was egging him on, though she was likely not. Or was she? Brynjolf found himself running in circles and analyzing every hitch and tiny hmm that crossed the girl's mouth and features.

Making conversation, Brynjolf realized right away, was not going to happen. If it had nothing to do with that convoluted cipher or the blighted old Falmer kingdoms, Katherine had none but a word to say on it. And he had no idea how to ask who she was to Mercer, why an impish thief & poisoner was allowed such private access to the Guildmaster's home and study without actually being apart of the Guild. He had briefly entertained that she was from some foreign attachment, or simply as Mercer had said – outside help. But Bryn knew better than that, Mercer was anything but wholly truthful.

“Have any more ink?” She had her hand outstretched, face set in a slouch in the other and a pair of silver spectacles balanced on the tip of her nose. He had been counting the number of times 'snow' was used on a single page of the long, tiny-printed text in front of him. He did not even know what he was doing any longer.

“Never had any to start.” He said idly. _Sixty-seven, sixty-eight …_

“I put down a fresh one before you arrived.” Her hand dropped. _Seventy-four, seventy-five …_

“For what would I even need ink?”

“The cipher, you imbecile.” Katherine's eyes narrowed.

“Seems you're making good enough notes.”

“Have you done anything at all?”

“This page uses the word 'snow' eighty-three times.” He pointed at the dusty old tome and grinned - two could play cheeky. She groaned and curled her long fingers into a fist. She stared at him a moment more before going back to her own reading.

Hours passed and the sun set fully over the waters surrounding Riften. They had four kettles of tea and a full plate of biscuits and cheeses brought by one of Mercer's silent & stalwart homeguards. Books were spread over the small table, all sizes and material and each more confusing and older than the last. Most were written by maesters dead a thousand years, and some by thieves who made it out of Falmer hovels with barely their lives or the singers who sang more than just of children’s tales. One of the books had pages that if touched too often disintegrated into dust.

She favored the old song books, saying they said more in their honeyed words than a casual eye would ever notice. Each part was a cipher in and of itself, the music was code and key. She hummed as she flicked through the pages, so often turning it with an impish grin for him to see. He mostly sat and watched, listened when she explained in great detail her findings.

“It's getting rather late.” He was not tired, in fact, he figured a good round with Vex in the training rooms would be best to calm himself before he did something rash – fight, fuck, play this endless game and battle of wits … He stood, fighting the scowl on his face and dusting motes from his chest.

“Yes I suppose you are right.” She stood with him, twining the end of her braid in her fingers. “I would not suggest going through the bookshelf again. Come, I'll show you out.”

She led him from the small study and down the stairs. Mercer was by the kitchen fire reading when they passed and spared no glance at them, but Brynjolf was sure he took careful notice – as any good thief would. The guards kept narrowed eyes on them as they moved through the house and she held the door open for him. Worse it seemed they were watching her with as much suspicion as him, like she was prisoner and not under guest-rite. It felt like an eternity when he stepped outside and realized his feet did not wish him to move. The three stone steps leading down to the walkway seemed endless, more than even the lofty heights of High Hrothgar.

“Good night.” She said softly.

“Good night.” He replied with his back turned.

The cold froze his nose and made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. One step and he paused, glancing from his peripheral to see her standing at the door and watching him. A second step and he heard her sigh. On the third and final he turned but she was already closing the door, lips pursed in a resigned line. Once her oppressively lovely little figure was gone from his sight he moved freely, almost jovially back to the Ratways. Vex was waiting when he arrived, the thought of sparring on the front lines of her mind just as well as his.

\- - - - -

Their daggers crossed and the sound of steel dragging against steel filled the small training room. Brynjolf turned right while Vex went left and they crashed together, tangling hilt into hilt. He pushed her off, turning his blades in hand while Vex crouched, looking for a spot to strike next. She came straight for him and feinted, ducking under his wide arc. It would have been a kill if he had been trying. She rolled and shot back up, coming full force at him again. He matched her blow for blow. She screeched and shot out with her right arm, knocking his left wrist and sending his blunted blade sailing across the room. 

Vex hardly got the better of him in a straight match and the thin threads he had been balancing on all day had snapped the moment his blade left his hand. He grit his teeth and rounded on the woman, fist connecting full-force with her jaw. Vex went down heaving.

“Son of a bitch,” Vex snapped, holding her chin where the bruise was already beginning to form. “The blighted hell is your problem Bryn?” Droplets of blood clung to her lips. She clicked her jaw, wincing each time the bone popped – he might have dislocated it, or hell, fractured it. Katherine's face came to mind -- he wondered if she would ever fight him, that is, if she knew more than just how to fish pockets.

Vex stood, rolled her joints and dropped into a sprint. Her shoulders barreled into his knees and he felt her arms scoop and flip him end over end. He grunted and felt all the air flee his chest as the back of his head slammed on the damp stone floor. Vex sat atop of him, face spinning from what would likely turn into a concussion. She was breathing heavy and blood now pooled on her full lips. Her tight corded muscle weighed heavy and he struggled slightly to breathe. Katherine would never feel that way, he was reasonably sure that lithe little frame was filled only with hot air.

“You want a real fucking fight, Bryn?” Her fist reared back and hit his nose with force he had forgotten the lanky woman possessed. His head bounced on the damp stone floor and he saw stars. She assailed him over and over until he could taste copper and his vision had split into thirds. Vex did not have the soft curves Katherine possessed – Vex hit his ear when he turned. The lanky woman had rough palms that scrapped his skin – Katherine's were small, soft, clean and smelled of vanilla. As though Vex could read his mind she hit him three times in quick succession. He felt a tooth wiggle in his mouth.

It was invigorating. He felt animistic as she hit him. He played into it, letting her go on longer than he likely should have before flipping them easily. He trapped her hands above her head and held his chest against her to keep her from squirming. He saw double from her beating. Vex's face swam under him, muddy brown eyes shifted to that northern water blue and thin blond hair melted to a fiery red.

“Like old times, eh Vex?” He blinked to put the faces back the right way.

“Going to bait me or going to fuck me? Make your choice, unless you forgot how, eh?” Katherine never spoke so rough – girl had a way to speak that read like pages in her many books. It was awkward, stunted and conversation had an iron line that was too difficult to blend.

Brynjolf bent to nip at Vex's split lips but he met the ground. She had slipped from his grasp. She kicked shut the training room door, unbuckling her armor as she went. Pieces of leather and chain clattered against damp stone. It was an easy and familiar sight to see. He remembered this scar and that one too, the easy slashes across her thighs and forearms. Little notches in her hips from bribing guard and bandit alike – Vex was never shy or any less crass than one would expect. She used to like it when they left their gauntlets on.

“Just going to lie there?” She had a sing-song when she knelt again, shaking his chin between finger and thumb. “Or you still want to punch it outta me, hmm? Can do that too,” scarred and calloused fingers scratched at his unshaven jaw. Vex straddled his lap, biting at his ears and neck and licking at the reddened skin. “S'that what you'd like, Bryn? A little taste of the … old times, as you say?” She smiled her wolfish grin and kissed him again and he felt that hard breath on his face. The pure need was plain upon them both.

The day had been so awkward, so mind-numbing that the feeling of Vex riding him to her own sweet Oblivion – the feeling that was always a sure bet before – did absolutely nothing. Katherine, Kat, whatever her true name – that girl had done something to him. More than the greenmote, more than the aloof and cold air she presented inside Mercer's study – this was not like him. It was as though he was watching a little boy still lost in his mother's skirts. He hated her more each time Vex cried out. The strong and lean woman who he could feel, alive and writhing before him did nothing to soothe the bile in his throat or warm the chilled ache in his chest.


	5. The Passing of Ships

“You've been spending a lot of time away.” Delvin dipped his quill into the inkpot.

“Mercer has me on those translations.” Brynjolf dug into his meat pie. He thought of Kat, curled in her stuffed chair, nose dug into a book. Somehow, a soft image such as that sent him raging. He thought of going into that drafty study and slamming her round, cheeky face on the floor. Maybe then she would drop the Lady Stoneheart act. Did she think he never noticed her staring? What was she looking for, hours on end? A faulty stitch in his mask, maybe? A chink in the armor? She did not seem the blade-in-the-dark type and he had enough of tea and cakes that she could have poisoned him again with little effort. 

“Aye, the 'outside help'.” Del paused to take a drink from his carved stone stein. Brynjolf had wondered when the smarmy little man would inquire about his long days spent cooped in Mercer's estate. The others had pestered him the very first day, though that was after his round with Vex. He could kick himself for opening that can of batshit crazy. “We're just wondering Bryn, who she is. Must be someone right special for you to keep so secret.” Special, eh? He wanted to laugh and spit his piping hot meat pie all over their faces. Katherine was not special. The girl was evil, tried & true. 

“Just some maester from Winterhold. Old craggy man who spits when he talks. Don't know where you got the 'she' part from.” This had become his response, though no one believed him. Vex had said it was in the way he talked after a long day spent above ground. A clippedness to his tone, a sharp turn in his eyes that gave him away. And Thrynn had said it was like after a night chasing whores and getting none.

“That’s why you come back right pissed and, ah … train with Vex?” Vex, Delvin and Brynjolf had all come to the Guild around the same time. Just a few years after a Brotherhood attack that had wiped most of the Guild’s numbers. Tonilia had found them on the street, three little whelps with attitudes and harried pasts. So it would fall that they knew most about Bryn, would know precisely what it meant when that scowl tracked across his face. “Thought you deemed that bag too much crazy to handle?”

“Vex ain't so bad.” He broke off a piece of crust from the still-steaming pie. “'Least I know what I'm in for.”

“Ain't so bad, he says.” Vex flopped into the third chair at their customary table in the Flagon. Vekel came over and plopped another meat pie and mead in front of her. The tall sturdy woman dug in heartily.

“Best watch Vex, ol' Bryn is keeping an old maester before you.” Delvin snickered into the dregs of his mead. “Oi Vekel, another round here, you filthy louse!”

“Ah yeah, craggy old man who spits, right Bryn?” Vex laughed into her own steaming crust. “You know ain't no one believe that. Some little trick Mercer ain't letting you touch, I'm sure.” She spoke with a mouth of the hot meat pie, gulping down a slough of mead right after.

“Have your laugh, go on.” He stood, dreading the next ten hours of his life spent in silence and in cold. “Better be glad it's not either of you that has to deal with it. Old man smells of piss and aloe, fills the whole damn room.” He left them laughing and he wondered if he had at least an hour or so to kill before he went to his own private hell. How could such a pretty face make the time droll on eternity? It simply was not the way it should be.

\- - - - -

Brynjolf made a sluggish pace up the stairs to the sanctioned study, dallying as much as possible. When he opened the door, feigned apology poised on his lips he stopped at the first sight of Lady Stoneheart. She was sitting in the window, ignorant of any sound except for that she was making. She had a small lute in hand and was strumming idly. 

The sound was soft and low, as though she was keeping purposely quiet and the tune very unfamiliar. It evoked a kind of melancholy he had not felt before. And to see her, hands moving smoothly over strings and plying out the sweet sound made his skin prickle. Her eyes were shut and her head resting against the wall. Her hair was loose, a little unkempt and her clothes looked as though she slept in them. 

Then, she began to sing. 

This is the moment that you know, that you tell me you love me but you don’t. You touch my skin and then you think, that I am beautiful but I don’t mean a thing to you. Yes, I am beautiful, but I don’t mean a thing to you. 

I want to believe all the words that you are speaking as we move together in the dark. And all the friends I was telling, all the playful misgivings and every bite you made left its mark. Tiny vessels oozed on my neck and formed the bruises I never want to fade. But they did and so did you, that day. 

" _All I see are dark gray clouds in the distance, moving closer with every passing hour. And you would ask, ‘is something wrong?’ And I would think, ‘yes, so much, but we can’t talk about it now’. So one last touch and then you will go, and we will pretend it meant so much more. But it was vile, but it was cheap, and though I’m beautiful, I’ll never mean a thing to you._ "

Her eyes were rimmed red and puffed as she finished and Brynjolf found he could not move. Her fingers rested on the strings of her lute and she clutched it to her chest. She bent her head and started to sob. It was silent, save for sniffling and her whole body shook with the effort. 

Before he realized what was happening, he was pulling her up by elbows and flopping her bangs from her eyes. She looked a deer caught in hunter’s sights but the tears had stopped and though her lip trembled as he looked her over, not a sound escaped. 

“I … I didn’t hear you come in.” She said in a little stuttered gasp. 

“I didn’t let you.”

His hands were on her shoulders, thumb just off her collar and soaking in the heat of her skin. She seemed to realize it the same moment he did and both took a long step backward. Her skin flushed pink, bringing out the sharp contrast of red around her crystalline blue eyes. They seemed sharper and without the usual malign intent. 

“I … I don’t think I am -” She faltered with a weak smile and a slight stutter in her voice. She seemed tired, as though she had not slept truly in weeks. “Perhaps you should go. It’s a not a very good day.” 

“No, I think you should come with me.” He took a small step toward her, fearful she might leap away like a frightened doe. “You spend too much time cooped up here, some fresh air will do you good, lass.”

“I can’t.” Her smile faded into a sad, far away expression. “I can’t leave.” 

“Can’t, or won’t?” He felt a sneer pulling at the edges of his mouth. He kept it in check, best he could. “Am I that terrible of company?” How, at the drop of a hat, she made his emotions roil from end to end, he would never know. 

“It’s not that,” she ducked her eyes under those shaggy soft bangs. “I am not permitted to leave Riftweald.” Her shoulders slumped in a weighted defeat he did not understand at the time. In fact, he did not believe her at all.

“I see no fetters on your wrists or ankles.” He made a mock wave with his hand. Was Mercer keeping her against her will? He did not seem the type. Brynjolf’s head reeled with nefarious plots and visions of tearing out Mercer’s eyes, regardless. 

“You do not understand.”

“Then make me.”

“No,” her voice had gone so quiet he had to strain to hear her. “I can’t. Just … Just leave it, all right?” 

He was seething at the desperate way she spoke. It made his mouth set in a thin line and all the muscles and bones in his body go tensely tight and rigid. He turned on a sharp heel and left, without looking back or hearing anything else she had to say. 

She would not speak, Mercer was keeping her, he should not care, but he did - he hated her, he wanted to know her, he wanted to hear her sing again, wanted to ask why she sung such a sad song with no one around to hear. These thoughts drove him back underground where not even sparring with Vex could soothe the rage and bile he felt crawling in his gut.

\- - - - -

_“Aunt Kari! Aunt Kari!” The little girl ran with abandon, leaping onto the thin dark elf woman with a screech of pure joy. “You’ve been gone a long time!” She nuzzled into the woman’s neck._

_“Little Kitten, you’ve gotten so big!” The dark elf cooed in response. She had a little spring in her step, the Little Princess had that way to her. They walked through the secret door to the Cistern. It was quiet and not a soul in sight. “Where is your Uncle Gallus, Kitten?”_

_“Nuncle’s with Daddy.” The little girl spun in a circle when Karliah put her down. “Are you going to take me to see the boats today?”_

_“Have you been a good girl for your mum?”_

_“Mama says I’m cheeky.” The little girl balanced on one foot, kicking the other in an arc. She had remarkable balance already and Karliah was sure one day she would outstrip them all. “Does that mean I’m a good girl?” Her big eyes blinked once, twice before the little girl dissolved into a fit of giggles._

_“It’s enough, Princess.” Karliah poked the little one’s nose. “Let me just check with your father, okay? You count to twenty and then we’ll go see the boats.”_

_“Okay!”_

Karliah had not dared to enter the city of Riften for many years. In fact, she never thought she would have the chance to see the city of her birth ever again. And yet, here she was leaning in an alley watching the dimmed flickering from within Riftweald Estate. This had not been her intention. She had come for information, to test Mercer’s resolve. She had never expected to step one foot inside the city gate. 

Instead, she did manage to enter the city and her feet unconsciously brought her to Riftweald, where she saw Little Kat. Little Kat who was not so little anymore. She was a woman grown, a girl who wore a melancholy frown and kicked her legs over the balcony rail. She was singing, softly, not enough to disturb the sleeping populace, but enough that Karliah could hear her. It was a ballad Gallus would always hum, a little love song continuously trapped in his head. Karliah felt a pang at the vivid memory and another, much sharper stab when she realized Katherine remembered too. 

" _Who will recall my name? None will be left to say, the tale of the one who now steals away. Who will recall my name? None will be left to say as autumn leaves are borne on winds gone astray._ "

It was uncanny how much she had grown to look like Moira. Stranger still was her voice - Mercer and Moira never had talent for the song, but Gallus, the man’s voice could melt the hardest of hearts. The rumors were true then, Little Kat had taken pieces of them all. It was no wonder Mercer kept her under lock & key, she would be just as headstrong as himself if not more. Karliah had to smile at that. 

Perhaps she had been going about this all wrong. Perhaps there was another way, one that did not lead to more bloodshed. Gallus had already given enough, hadn’t he? 

Karliah watched Katherine make her way down the side of the wall and over the garden gate. Quick, quiet and surefooted, Katherine landed outside the high walls of Riftweald with no sound louder than a tmp of cloth on cobblestones. She drew a hood over her head and made a brisk pace toward the entrance to the docks. Karliah followed, wondering what Little Kat was up to so late in the night. The girl did not notice her dunmer shadow - a lucky thing as Karliah was unsure how much she truly knew. Mercer could have filled her head with lies, the very same he had been living for near enough twenty years. 

But Karliah had a difficult time believing that. As she rounded the corner, she saw Katherine stop. She was at the very edge of the docks, an unused portion fallen into near total decay. It fell off abruptly into the deepest part of the lake. It was where she used to take the little one to watch the boats. Karliah’s body went wretchedly tense at the sight - the girl remembered so much more than she had expected. 

Katherine sat and put bare feet into the frigid water. She turned her head and rest against the rail as the lighthouse lazily shone its light around the lake. Two ships were coming, a day, day and a half out, but you could just see the barest hint of a shadow. Karliah remembered well enough that this was Little Kat’s favorite game - who could spy the ship first. The Little Princess won a lot, the girl with eyes like khajiit. 

“Merry nameday, Aunt Kari.” Katherine said quietly. Karliah had been lost in another memory, a more painful memory when the girl spoke. Karliah watched in a stunned silence as Little Kat dropped a handful of nightshade into the water. The petals drifted beautifully against the inky black of the water’s surface. She could not believe the girl even remembered their tradition. 

Karliah slipped into the shadows when she heard the unfamiliar steps coming down the plank. She drew her bow and knocked back an arrow, silence ever her friend & compatriot. She took quick stock of the cloaked figure making his way toward the shoulder-slumped girl who hummed over the waters. Karliah was ready, for what she had no idea, but should anyone harm Little Kat, well … 

“I thought you couldn’t leave?” 

“ _Cannot_ and _Could Not_ are two different things.” Replied Katherine, still with her back turned. “Is there something you want?”

“Just wondering why you’re out here all alone.” The man leaned on the wall nearest the alley in which Karliah was hidden. She held her breath and loosened her bowstring - it seemed Little Kat knew him. 

“Honoring the dead.” She said and stood, dusting her skirts and tightening the laces of her cloak. She put on her cloth shoes and made a move to walk by the man, but he stopped her. 

“Must you always run off? Can’t we talk for a moment, lass?”

“About what?” Little Kat got her mother’s tongue, the bite and growl were all so very familiar to Karliah’s ears. 

“By the Nine,” the man let go of Katherine’s arm and ran a hand over his hair. “We’ve spent the last two months locked up in a room together and all I know is that you’re smarter than a whip, got a voice like I’ve never heard and the best damn thief I’ve seen in an age.” He gestured wildly. “Forgive me if it makes me want to know you.”

“Seems like you know more than enough.” 

“Did your mother teach you to sing?” 

“No,” Katherine hissed. “My Nuncle Gal -- my Nuncle did.” 

“Who is ‘Kari’?” 

“My mother’s sister. She’s dead. You were listening?” 

“Sorry lass, I think curiosity got the better of me.” 

“Are you satisfied then? Want to know how they died?” There was a ferocity to the way she spoke and Karliah shivered though the fervor was not directed at her. She felt bad for this man, though she herself wanted to know the answers too. She was very much alive, after all.

“I didn’t mean --”

“No of course, you didn’t mean anything by it. You just let your curiosities lead you. They pull your feet, make you ask painful things. But no, it’s no worry at all.” Katherine sighed and hung her head. “Look. Not all of us have the luxury of curiosity. Sometimes, being curious means being dead. In my case, well, that’s exactly it.”

Katherine shouldered past him and took a hurried pace back home. The man slumped against the wall and watched her leave. Karliah watched him and the sad eyes he carried, caught up in the torrent of Katherine -- Little Kat who had grown so much and taken pieces of them all.

\- - - - -

“But this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance! The artifact –”

Here they were again, father & daughter, pitted against one another with no win in sight.

“I will send someone if you're so sure. There is no need for you to go.”

“They won't know what to look for.”

Father and daughter, by the Eight, evenly matched in stare and stance.

“Draw a picture for all I care. You are not leaving this house.”

“I broke in, did I not? I can break back out.” The serpentine quality to her voice was terribly familiar. She had certainly gotten that one from her mother.

“Fine.” He would have to surrender; he learned well enough to brook no threat from his only child. “But I'm sending someone along with you.”

“A babysitter? You cannot be serious.” Nails dig into the wood of his desk. 

“You will concede to whatever I wish, Katherine. The Dark Brotherhood sought to kill you three times while you were in Solitude and they have been moving through Riften for some time. You do not understand what is at stake. For all your airs Katherine, you're still just a squalling child.”


	6. Love at First Near-Drowning

The second night of their secret journey outside of Riften he found her again by the fire. She was brooding, wearing that petulant scowl and ungainly wrinkle in her brow. He had offered to gather firewood, finding even the air around her to be stifling and oppressive as that study. She read her tomes or muttered angrily into the sputtering fire and blessedly paid him little mind. Neither had dared a word over their talk three nights prior, down by the docks. It was likely wiser on both counts this way. 

Mercer had made him swear again to not speak of this venture. Whatever they were seeking was dangerous, if Mercer’s fidgeting hands had been any sign. But, it was necessary. Despite his poor company, Brynjolf found the change of pace refreshing. It was hardly ever that he was able to leave Riften, let alone the Hold itself.

He sat across the fire from her, setting to work on his daggers. The leather around the hilt was wearing and the blade itself could use a pass or two over the whet stone. Anything would be better than watching her be mysterious. Brynjolf had suggested bringing Vex along, or even Delvin, but Mercer had refused. He could not blame the Guildmaster, she had screwed the pair rather good those few months back. But he knew those two better than Mercer could ever try. It would only take a simple word and they would each forget the professional transgressions.

“Hey.” Her squeak of a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Want a drink?”

“No way I'm drinking with you again.” He immediately went back to working on his blade.

“Look, I'm really sorry about that, okay?”

“Sorry for your sport now, aye lass?”

“By Talos you are ridiculous!” She stood in a flash. “Yes I know I could have killed you, but I did not. Yes I know I should not poison random strangers, but I did. I cannot take it back even if I wanted to.” Her hands shook. Fingers curled and uncurled. Her nostrils flared and her eyes had gone wild. She did not even seem the same girl he had seen down on the docks. Could it be possible there are two? Was Mercer having him on with a set of twins? 

“Take it back if you could, aye lass?” He did not realize this admission would ever come, let alone that it would cause him to choke down an absurd laugh at the sight of her. Her wrinkled dress and nose were a sight that made the anger ebb away quickly and he found himself intrigued by this new flustered game. The girl wore many faces, that much was plain. Today, it seemed, she played the maid.

“ _Oh for the love of –_ Yes, all right. I would take it back.” She muttered, flopping back down on the log. She crossed her arms and shivered, a melancholy now spreading on her face.

“Fair enough, lass. Consider it forgiven.”

He turned the whet stone and began his work again. He could feel her watching him. He looked at her without actually turning his eyes from his task but she was staring and twirling that damnable braid around her fingers. She stayed like that for minutes that stretched infinitely until she seemed to have a spark go off in her mind. She skittered around the camp and sat next to him. He could feel that unnatural heat of her skin that made his breath hitch in his lungs. Unnerving, foul little woman … She showed the bottle – a vintage red not of the Black-Briars.

“Thought I said I wasn't going to drink with you, lass?” He regarded her with feigned suspicion and he cursed himself for falling back into that poncy I want to make you smile act. How easy she had him already - one moment they yell and spit and hiss, then the next he’s fawning like some greenboy. It was obnoxiously clear she was trying to drive him mad. She poured a liberal amount of wine into clayware and handed it to him. He took it, drinking with a cautious eye over the small kiln-burned cup.

“Can we start over?” She asked after a small sip from her own cup. The lip was chipped slightly and the hand-carved swirls were faded and crackling.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Can we start over? Like, as though we never met.” She refilled both their cups. He snickered; was she being serious? Her eyes said that she was, there was no mischievous glimmer this time.

“Why?” It was the only thing he could think to ask.

“Because … I really like you. I think … I think we got off on the wrong foot. I think I may have been a little hasty in my judgements.” A pink blush spread over her cheeks and he found his hands were wont to touch it, to feel if it was hotter than her skin. If she were a pup, that little bushy tail would be wagging expectantly. “And … perhaps I should not have been so rash the other night.” She added in a small voice. “You were only being … concerned. That was wrong of me.”

“All right.” He nodded, sure he was going to regret it.

“Hello, my name is Katherine. It's a pleasure to meet you.” She smiled, sipping on that wine again, batting those lovely velvet long lashes against those high cheekbones.

“Brynjolf, love,” he made to take her hand, she shivered against his rough palms. “At your service.” He kissed her hand, just as he did the first time they met.

\- - - - -

“So what's your story girl?” He was stretched out by the fire, clayware cup balanced on his chest. They had only a few swallows left of the wine. “Must be something.” He gingerly put his folded arms under his head.

“Same as everyone else,” she shrugged. “Just a sad lonely girl lookin' for some kind of adventure.” She pulled the furs tighter around her shoulders. She had taken Brynjolf to be a sharper man, but he had yet to work out who she was. It made her angry and sad, though part of the game still thrilled her - more than thrill, there was something about him that made it all the more appealing. 

“I don't believe that for an instant.” He chuckled. “Got to be someone big to know Mercer. Man don't usually let folk stay in his house so freely.” He tipped the small cup toward him, sulking when he realized there was not a drop to spare. “And you got some fire in you, lass.”

“I’m just a singer who happens to know more than she rightly should about the Falmer.” She giggled, honest to goodness giggled. She wanted to rip off that stupid grin she knew to be plastered on her face. She picked the bottle up with her teeth, wishing to spit that cork taste from her mouth, and she crawled to him. “And perhaps Mercer owes me a favor or two, hm? Did you think on that?” He looked up at her, brow relaxed and lazy smile on his chiseled, unshaven face. She sat back on her knees and poured the last of the wine into his cup. She nodded and made to turn to go back to her spot on the furs but a large hand had closed around her ankle.

“Yes?” She turned with the feeling of her eyebrows in her hairline and a prickle on her skin.

“You didn't answer my question, lass.” Brynjolf's voice had taken on that husky quality she remembered so vividly from that night at the tavern. “And Mercer ain’t ever owed anyone a favor.” He waggled a finger and pulled. She was tangled in her skirts and he held onto her foot. The hard pad of his thumb moved over the soft skin, sending a shiver up her legs.

“I am not anyone exciting, much to your dismay.” She flopped the ruffle of her skirt, covering her feet and his hand still in place around her ankle.

“No lass, you're something. I'm sure of it.” He sat up slightly, eyes roaming over her face. “Can't place it yet, but I know it. Never was ever wrong about a mark.” He seemed to be having trouble focusing.

“And I think you are drunk.” She sighed. She wanted to tell him, the urge was overwhelming. What was it about the smarmy Nord that made her want to show him all the cards, even the secret ones tucked in her boot? Why did he make her so angry that she could not see straight and yet, she only wanted to see him or listen to him talk. Why did she want nothing more than to throw him down and kiss him until he shut his trap?  
“And I think you're hiding something.” His voice was a little sing-song and he put his face close to hers. “I can see it. There,” he poked at her nose. “Your eyes just flashed.” He sat back smug and drained the last of his wine.

“And if I am? Hiding something that is? What is it you will do?” He was so easy to play along with and she found herself hating him for it. The mask she wore was held only by threads and he had a way of pulling it off her with a word.

“Hmmm, torture I should think.”

He ran his index finger over the bottom of her foot. She tried to pull away but his hand was an iron manacle. She flailed and kicked but he kept his hold. She rained down half-hearted drunken blows on his shoulders and chest but to no avail. His fingers had moved to her calf and to that spot behind her knees. He was relentless in his ministrations and she could no longer hold back the veritable torrent of laughter. He pressed on until she could no longer breathe. When he finally stopped he was poised above her.

“This your plan?” She heaved out, wondering absently if that cold chill on her chest meant that she was exposed in an unladylike way. Mother always did prefer her dresses low cut.

“Oh ho lass, I think I have you right where I want you.” All his teeth were showing, reflecting the moonlight in such a way she was sure she was going to be devoured. Stranger still that she did not mind the prospect.

“Is that so?” A tremble in the lip, cut between two teeth and a little bit of fluttered lash were her response.

“It is.” He laughed from the pit of his stomach, sending her skin to quiver when he brushed hair from her neck. She relaxed on the soft ground, letting the warmth of his body enfold her.

“And your intent, good ser? Now that you have me?”

He groaned and shut his eyes.

“Gods girl, what is it you're doing to me?” The way he mumbled it seemed he did not actually want to speak it aloud. He rubbed his palms against his eyes. “You poisoned me, fucked around my head and you've been driving me crazy going through those books.” He gestured with his hands and his knees flexed against her ribs. “I can't figure if I should kiss you or kill you.” 

“Well I would rather you not kill me, definitely. I’m a rather big fan of living.” She quirked another grin, the heaviness of his words pressed upon her, however. Had he felt it too, just as palpable? There was certainly something between them, more than the random acts of poison and myriad of books and tedium – just below the surface of her skin, like a little rope coiled around her lungs. His existence pulled it taut and wrenched against her rib cage. She wondered if he felt it too.  
For a moment, he simply looked at her. She felt exposed under that careful and resolute gaze. He traced over her neck and chest, memorizing the freckles and marks that covered her. She had never been under such scrutiny before and she should have been mortified, instead she found herself wishing he would never stop. He hooked his hands at her elbows and pulled her up. He sat her on her knees and he moved more errant hair from her eyes – blasted curls always went everywhere. She quirked a brow for lack of words and he kissed her, the heat of it pooling in the pit of her stomach and the base of her spine.

His hands ran over her shoulders and found the laces of her bodice without opening his eyes. He was practised, surely, and Katherine was … at a loss. Father and Uncle Bendt had kept suitors away - any man, really - so she was … Yes, at a loss was a great way to describe it. Brynjolf untied the laces and was in process of pushing the silken fabric all the way off when she stopped him.

“Uh.” Yes Katherine, so very eloquent. “Uh, wait?” Oh this was going to ghastly. Brilliant and ghastly. 

“Something wrong, lass?” His lips were on her neck, nipping and licking the soft sensitive skin. Her thoughts were slowly turning to nonexistence.

“No … Not wrong …” How even to bring it up? Katherine struggled to keep presence of mind as hands found the tops of her thighs. Calloused hands lifted her again and pulled her close, nose to nose.

“What is it?” He stopped then, seafoam green searching her for further explanation. His mind churned in his drink-addled haze. “Oh,” he said. “That … That can’t be it?” He asked as though she knew what he was asking. She did. She was thankful to not say it aloud. “ _Talos spare me,_ it is, isn’t it?”

“Yes, well … I … Never had the opportunity?” _Oh, splendid. Rich._ She sounded the right fool. Five-and-twenty and still a maid. Pantea was laughing now, Katherine was sure. The drink had gone out of her in an instant, offering up a stark clarity she wished would just go away.

“Well.” Brynjolf leaned back, running fingers through his hair. His senses were sharp again, all of the previous fervor flooding out of him too. “That is certainly unexpected.” He did not seem put off, Katherine noticed, which she assumed was a good thing. She did not think she would handle it well if he stopped now.

“Are you … mad?” Five-and-twenty, more like the six-and-ten she appeared.

“Mad? Lass, no, by the Nine, no.” He laughed and flopped her bangs again. He sighed and let hands travel her bare shoulders and the base of her neck. “But perhaps not tonight, aye love?”

\- - - - -

She hears the rustling first, then the whispers, then the heavy sound of metal boots sinking and sticking in the mud. The rain had stopped the moment the sun had crested over the mountain and they – ten or more – were moving ever closer to their small camp. She opens her eyes and does not move, catching breath harshly in her lungs. The group sounds like soldiers, Imperial accents bitter and chattering in the cold morning air.

Brynjolf is still asleep, his arms wrapped possessively around her. She struggles to remove herself from his iron grip but it is futile and he only holds on even tighter. The voices are closer now, their words becoming clearer. They are hunting, for animal or person, she could not be sure but a pair of thieves caught unawares would be quarry enough. And unawares was certainly putting it lightly, now that she had considered it. She was dressed in just a shift, veritably nude by noble standards, save for his arms and fur blankets.

“Hey, Bryn,” she whispers and pushes on his bulky arm. “Wake up.”

He hmm's and squeezes her again. She squeaks, pushes hard against his chest – like a sodding brick wall – and he quirks a single eye. “Oaf, there is someone coming.” She hisses and both of his fathomless sea foam greens blink his mind awake. He sits up, still holding her to him as the first line breaks through the treeline border of their small camp. They hold still together, not daring even to breathe.

“Hold there, men,” a staunch, thick Imperial accent calls. “Looks fresh, early enough they might still be here.” They hear the steps coming closer to their tent. They have half a minute, likely less before they find the little tent just a bit a ways away from their fire. 

“Look at this here, Captain. Looks like a right little miss.” Katherine shudders, they found the rest of her clothes, no doubt. They had not taken time enough to pull them inside when the rains began. 

Brynjolf's mouth crests on her ear, “Gotta run now, lass. I'll get rid of them.” He nips slightly, a way to calm her, she supposes. “Hide well kitten, and come back at dusk. I'll be waiting for you.” His voice was so small, even on her skin so, that she barely hears him. She knew her skill rivaled most, well, Uncle Bendt always did say she had an ego the size of Ysgramor.

Katherine slides out from his grip, feeling the loss of his bulk acutely, as the Imperials pluck around outside the small canvas tent. She knew well enough where and how to put your feet on wet and tractless ground and still keep silent. Brynjolf picks her up and shoves her out the back of the tent just as the flap was letting a sliver of light shine through.

“Gentlemen, good morning!” He booms and she takes off, ducking into the shadows of the trees. She promptly slips on something thick and foul smelling she does not even wish to consider and shucks her legs into much too large trousers as she sets into a full run.

\- - - - -

Farrun stretched before she shucked a bucket of sand on her fire. Her neck was sore from the hard sleep on the ground and all her muscles felt seized. She had four more sabre cats to hunt down and then she could return home, to Whiterun. She wondered if they worried after her? Perhaps Aela did, the strong woman always the first to Farrun's side after a fight or hard night down at the Mare. As she flexed her arms high above and behind her back she snickered, remembering their last game of cards with the stalwart brothers. Poor Farkas lost so much money that night, he’ll be beggering Skjor for drinks for weeks.

The fire went out easy and she set to work on the rest of her small camp. She had not brought much, only a bedroll and cookpot; she had not expected to be gone so long. 'Sure you want to go alone, Farrun?' Kodlak had asked. 'Certainly Harbinger. I've nothing to fear of cats.' She had replied.

That was near enough three weeks ago. They probably thought her dead. She smirked when she tried to picture the shocked looks on their faces when she returned with enough pelts to get them through the next six winters. The furs all went in on top of her bedroll. Farrun checked the straps on her bow slanted across her back and adjusted the high tops of her boots.

Across from her hollow log – the best part of this solitary trek, really, such a convenient find – the cliff dropped off into a waterfall. She made her way and craned over the side. The ice cold water splashed on her face and all of nature's sound drowned out in the rushing waters. Skyrim really was a beautiful country, she hated to admit. It was nothing like the rolling plains and ashen lands of Vvardenfell, but this place, though cold, was good as any.

She had come her for purpose, for vengeance and retribution. And now, seven months gone and it barely felt a tickle compared to the previous burn. Some days were worse than others, especially the rain, when her eye ached and strained and still tried to see. The nights were another matter, when her dreams took her back to the night when Julan was still alive. He had loved her, passionately and to a fault, losing his life to save hers. And she had vowed over his pyre to find the one called Maro and slit his throat after she removed his eye in payment.

This vow had made her cross borders into foreign lands and take to a ship for the very first time. The khajiit traders had hired her on to guard them as they made the long trip from Riften to Whiterun to sell their goods. Their leader, Ri'Saad had paid good coin for her bow & sword since they only traveled by night.

_Kodlak and his apprentice, the stoic brooding Nord she would come to know as Vilkas, had been hunting along the trails when their paths crossed. Ri'Saad offered his meager table and the Old Man accepted, much to the dismay of the Scowling Vilkas. He and the sagely cat talked for hours, sharing meat & mead and tales from their various, respective travels. Farrun herself had been awed when Kodlak spoke of his Companions. The appeal of steady work, a single city would help her greatly toward her goal. Maro was somewhere, surely, and she would find him if she had the contacts. It had been an easy choice when Kodlak offered her a place._

_'A sellsword? Are you sure, Harbinger?' Vilkas had protested._

_'I am no sellsword. In my tribe I was named gulakhan, you swi't.' She had answered, matching his disgust with more than enough of her own._

_'Calm Farrun,' Ri'Saad spoke. 'Perhaps the young one wishes to test your mettle?'_

_'Yes, I should like to see your skill for myself.' Kodlak had surprised his apprentice by agreeing so easily._

_Farrun stood, unsheathing her sword and readying her shield. He came at her in an instant, the over large greatsword hitting dead center of her banded steel. She held her line, feet grinding into the softened ground. When he swung a second time he came in a hard line over his shoulders. She could not help the satisfaction that spread through her bones. She stepped back, simply, easily. He was predictable as any other warrior she had faced before, though perhaps faster despite his choice of weapon. His beastly mammoth of a sword crashed into the dirt and tacky mud swallowed and slurped it under._

_One long stride and another and Farrun kicked out. With his blade no longer in his hands she surged forward and pounced, pinning the man to the ground. So close she felt her smallness in comparison; all Nords were seemingly this way. He was winded, he had put all his strength into blows that would have taken another warrior, but not Farrun. She was a hunter – she knew weakness, landscape and how to use those to her favor. Warriors who wielded such burdening weapons were clumsy and all fell the same – hard and quickly._

_“I yield.” Vilkas spoke with a thin scowl that framed his chin. She slid off him, unable to control the grin that spread and showed all her teeth. She slid her silver blade into its hold and offered a hand. A fight lost was no shame, even if it was poorly fought._

Farrun sat herself on the cliff's edge, removing her boots in an easy motion. Her callused feet were sore, and she rubbed at them as the last of the memory melted into the back of her mind. That had been a good night and she had been sad to leave Ri'Saad's service – the wise old cat had a serene and vast, brilliant sort of way about him. She removed a small wedge of cheese and her waterskin. She decided then, as the water slipped between her toes and numbed the thick calluses on her heels, today would be an easy day.

“Shit, shit – _shitshitshit –_ ” The grassy hill and rot stone path that lead up the mountainside seemed to speak. The brush moved, shifted and cursed. Farrun turned and stood in an instant, drawing the small dagger at her belt. No animal Farrun knew cursed. Moments slowed to a crawl and the battle sung in her veins. She crouched and hid behind a rock, rushing waters tickling her at her bare feet.

The girl broke through the trees, hair loose in tangles and branches and blood spotted on her clothes and face. Her shift was torn, the legs of her oversized leather trousers shredded -- she looked crazed, overtired, like she had been woken by horrors. When her pink feet touched the road she stopped, though the dense forest behind her still convulsed in heavy footfalls. Farrun sounded out ten or more, possibly others moving into flank. One girl? Unarmed and unarmored and clutching wildly at her garb? Not a sight one wishes to see. Farrun moved out into view, her small silvered blade back in its sheath.

The girl froze like a deer caught in hunter’s sights. She clutched her frayed shift tight around her chest and seemed to shrink into the muddy road as the pursuers came closer and closer still. Farrun could guess at her fear, plain as it was on her person and face. A small part of her hoped those chasing the solitary little mouse were Imperial. It would be that much sweeter.

“Are you all right?” Farrun called softly. She knew the girl heard, even if she did not move. Her large, bright blue eyes were frantic. “It’s okay.” Farrun strained her voice to be loud enough so only that the dumbstruck girl would hear. She felt a tinge of pity - she looked just barely over fifteen and terrified.

“Can you swim?” The girl called back, seemingly shocked back into reality at the curses still caught in the thick density of the trees.

“Yes?” Farrun answered though her words were lost in the oncoming soldiers clamouring for their quarry. They were more than ten, Farrun observed, at least two dozen bubbled from the thick treeline and set their marks on the wide-eyed girl.

The little redhead wasted no time. She shrieked and darted across the road, jumping and keeping her path jagged so loosed arrows would not impede her. Farrun watched a barbed notch sink into the girl’s leg but her pace did not falter or let another shriek pass her lips.

“Sorry,” said the girl and Farrun realized she had no intention of stopping her barreling gait.

Thin shoulders slammed hard into Farrun’s chest, extinguishing all the air she held in her lungs. She felt the ground leave her feet and watched her boots tumble past her head. The girl had locked arms around her and was screaming, making the entire situation more than a little disorienting. She was unsure of what had just transpired until they hit the glass surface of the partially frozen lake hundreds of feet below where they just had been.

Water filled Farrun’s mouth and nose and the girl squeezed tighter still to her neck. There was nothing else to do but kick hard for the surface, though she was unsure where that was. She was disoriented and losing consciousness faster than she certainly would have liked. Even more disconcerting was the thick bubble of calm that Farrun felt creeping through and settling in her gut. If this were to be the end …

More arms than a single man could possess pulled them from the water so suddenly that real, fresh air was a shock to her system. Farrun sucked it in greedily as the steady black still swirled at the edge of her vision. She was vaguely aware of the girl with flaming red hair next to her. The redhead was unconscious, whole body limp and soaked - she looked dead. Farrun’s one good eye focused on the girl while hands and legs moved around her.

“Are you all right?” A gruff voice asked and Farrun tried to make out his face. The water was not fresh water as she felt the familiar sting of salt and brine in her eye. “Can you hear me?”

Farrun brought up a trembling hand just before that inky black pulsed and filled her sight.

\- - - - -

Maps were the only thing that gave him solace anymore. The old faded parchment, the smell that permeated every inch of the yellowed paper was a comfort now that the long days had stretched even further. Galmar had been itching for another chance at the Imperials since their last foray. The Bear truly lived up to his name; the long treks at bloody war were what the man favored best. Ulfric was tired. Of war, of Jarls and Thieves’ daughters and noblemen. The fight had gone out of him long before that, he could not even exactly remember when it did.

He studied the lines of Whiterun Hold, not that he truly had cause to do so, he had been there oft enough and knew the roads and trails by heart. Balgruuf was the key. To control the southern region would lock The Reach in his favor. They would have no choice if he took Whiterun, the lands cut between there and High Hrothgar would render the Reach cut off from the rest. It was precision, these movements. Once The Reach fell, the rest would come too.

He scrubbed hands over his face. Ulfric leaned his hands on the table and sighed. He knew the plan, his men did too, there was no need to go over these endless details any longer. Perhaps if he had another hour, maybe two, he could finally rest. The sight of his bedroll and the many furs atop it seemed more than appealing. He heard his men outside, beginning the day and the smells of greased meat and stew made his stomach rumble. He could not remember the last time he ate.

The sun assaulted his eyes. He had been up all night reading by candlelight. They would be back in Windhelm tomorrow, so long as the weather permitted and wanton images of his goose down bed danced in his head. But he knew the moment he returned Jorleif would be bouncing with missives and carrier birds, ready to bury him under the political shitstorm Windhelm had become. If it was not the dark elves, it was those who disdained them. Or Laila and her burgeoning marriage plots. Or Torygg’s queen decrying him a murderer. Or it was that damnable Maven Black-Briar screaming her shrill scream for dominance in The Rift. Ulfric knew what she was, even if the veritable woman thought he did not. She was as nefarious as those thieves and assassins she surrounded herself with and trusting either was foolhardy. It would mean her death, and his, if he were to allow her influence to spread.

“Good morning, my Jarl.” Galmar greeted him as he sat at the communal table.

“And to you, Galmar. How fares the day?” The Old Bear's second lieutenant, a young man named Ralof, handed down a bowl of stew and a hard end of bread. Ulfric nodded his thanks and was glad his men had grown used to him taking his meals among them. It was something his father instilled him in - Let them see your face, boy. Let them know and see who rules them. Never place your head above the citizens, only the denizens.

His Old Bear had no time to respond. A sharp scream filled the small valley and they all turned eyes toward the waterfall. They all saw the ball of pale and ashen flesh careen down the rushing falls and land in the deep pool with a crushing splash. For a moment, the waters and Ulfric's men did not move. One gray-skinned head with shoulder-length black hair, and another ginger-red and lolling, bobbed to the surface, gasping and coughing.

Men leapt from the long table and to the water’s edge, a few even diving in. Shouts rang out and the old healer, Festus, was still in his stocking cap. Still, the old healer bounced on heels as his soldiers dragged the two women ashore.


	7. Dalliance

Two days. She had not returned after two days and Brynjolf was growing worried. The sun was setting, the pink and purple sky beautiful and listless. The mountains painted harsh shadows around their campsite. He had not slept since the Imperials had moved on.

Two _sodding_ days ago.

They should have been back in Riften by now. They should have been back to the solitude of Mercer's study, pouring over the artifact - the lexicon as she had called it. He thrust his blade across the whet stone frustratedly, again and again, as he watched the shadows fade to night from his peripheral.

“The big thief with the big mouth sits alone.” He stopped his work and stilled. There were no footfalls, no rustle of brush, just the soft purr suddenly behind him.

“Curious wonder, that.” A second voice joined, same as the other.

“Am I truly alone, kittens? Can you be so sure?” He did not like Maven's pets. Their creepy yellow eyes always watched him, even when they were nowhere to be seen. But Maven was to be tolerated, much to his chagrin. Biggest mistake, allowing the hardheaded matriarch so much pull within the Guild. She thought them all her personal lackeys, which of course, was laughable. Mercer was a double-dealer, tried and true, and if Maven thought he would never play her, well, she was not as smart and affluent as she appeared. 

“Oh yes,” The first said.

“We know the big thief is alone.” The second finished.

“What are you doing out here?” He was in no mood to play a game of wits with a pair of cats. “Far off from master's boots, eh?” He brought his dagger across the whet stone again, feigning his disinterest.

“He does not wish to play with us, sister.” The second pouted.

“Tch,” came the first voice again. “Dismissive and rash, this one.” Brynjolf did not let the thud in his chest show on his face, though he supposed the cats knew.

“Assassins making bargains. Never thought I'd see the day.”

“No bargain,”

“None at all.”

“Then what?” Brynjolf was growing weary – the game, the lack of sleep, bloody Kat … He would sooner kill them both than listen to their pointless hissing.

“The girl, the Breton,” said the first.

“You wish to know where she has gone?” Added the second.

Brynjolf remembered the cats watching Katherine when he first spied her in Riften's square. Had they wanted her dead, she would have been, ages ago. But he had to wonder – was Mercer protecting her by hiding her in his estate? Again, Brynjolf questioned, who this woman truly was.

“He worries, sister.”

“Indeed he does.”

One shifted and his instinct placed her just behind and to the left. He held up his dagger, the edge dangerously sharp and, how it positively shone in the moonlight! When the cat had shifted, going silent again, he turned and tossed. The blade hit its mark and the second cat squealed. He had, at most, expected it to come close enough to her feet to make her dance, not to actually hit square in the chest. Lady Luck, it seemed, had not forgotten him all together. 

The first made her way to stand in his sight. She was crouched low and had both her curved blades at the ready. He did not fear cats, only found them bothersome. He could hear her sister dying quietly out of his line of sight. The sound brought a feral grin to his face - if the cat wanted a fight, well, the cat would get a fight indeed.

“That was an unfortunate decision, Nord.” The first hissed.

“Was it?” He brushed at his shoulder disinterested.

“You shall taste my steel!”

The black cat with haunting, surreal yellow eyes lunged. Brynjolf turned slightly, as though in a dance and scooped her by the scruff. Cats, he scoffed. He used his free hand to wrench her blades and toss them aside. She kicked and tried to scratch but his size made all the difference. He dropped her quick and in the same fluid motion pinned her with all his weight.

“Now,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

\- - - - -

Something was wrong. Katherine could feel it the moment she woke. Her hands were bound and she was propped and tied to a tent pole. A fire burned hot in a nearby brazier. She was alone in the stifling tent though she heard many voices outside. Had the Imperials caught her? Had they climbed down the mountain path and fished her from the icy cold waters? And what of the dark elf who went over too?

She fidgeted against her bonds but they would not fray. Her head felt heavy and thick, stuffed full of wet cloth. She had no idea how much time had passed. Her stomach growled and she knew rightly then it had been no less than two days. That too, would account for the mighty pain that lanced across her eyes. Around her hung blue banners, not Imperials then, emblazoned with a snarling bear. Of course it was Jarl Ulfric. Katherine was reasonably sure Lady Luck had given up on her, especially now. 

“Unhand me,” Katherine perked at the voice that rang clearly over all the rest. “Filthy s’wit.” Ah, the dark elves. Thick accents, strange words - they were the most obvious in all Tamriel. Katherine could only hope that was the sound of her unwilling saviour, though, on the other hand, it did not sound as she was being lauded. Such were Nords and their nationalism.

The flaps of the tent parted and big lumbering arms tossed in a still spitting, still cursing dark elf woman. She too was bound, though her ropes showed sign of wear - likely she already tried to split them apart and was caught. Her legs were tied as well in such a way that movement would be severely limited. What a fine state, Katherine thought glibly.

Katherine watched with the sort of interest only a head injury can offer - absolute astonishment. The dark elf wiggled and wriggled, eventually pulling her bound legs through the loop behind her back. From there it was a simple twist of the woman’s spine and her bound hands - while still limited - now were more manageable in the front. The dark elf was sweating profusely when she finished and taking in deep lungfuls of air. She lay on her back, eyes shut at Katherine’s feet.

“Hello.” Katherine was amused at the sound of her voice. Her tongue felt thick and dry, like she had not had water for days, but the sound was not garbled or disjointed. Perhaps her head was not as damaged as she previously thought.

The dark elf woman’s eyes, well one eye more aptly, shot open at the sound of Katherine’s voice.

“You.”

“Me?” Katherine replied.

“You … IDIOT.” The woman moved fast in her newfound advantageous position and wrapped long calloused fingers around Katherine’s neck. “You … nearly … killed … us … both!” The dark elf woman screeched. Katherine could not move to defend herself and managed only a weak little whimper as the woman’s hands went more rigid and taut around her throat.

“Let … go …” Katherine sputtered and gnashed with her teeth but could find no purchase on the woman’s skin. Inky black was creeping into her vision and Katherine worried. Who held them? Who would stop this deranged elf? Father was going to be so cross --

The rush of air was almost too much and Katherine struggled to take it in. A large man held the elven woman by the waist and under his arm, making her look more like a wily sack of potatoes than an attempted murderer. He was speaking, to Katherine perhaps, she was not totally sure. She could barely hear him for the rush of blood between her ears.

“… okay? Aye girl, are you all right?” The man had a free hand on Katherine’s chin and was shaking her eyes open. He was enormous and wore the mouth of a bear as a helm. It was an imposing sight. “You hear me, girl?”

“Y-yeah,” Katherine managed. “F-fine.” She did not look past the struggling wildcat of a woman under the overbearing man’s arm. Still, she had to know, were these friends or foes. Perhaps if Ulfric were before her, she might not have to make that guess, but he was not. Instead, Galmar the Stone-Fist - unflappable and stalwart to a fault. 

“She your friend?” The man hefted the dark elf to illustrate a moot point. Katherine really despised the Nords on occasion. Too stupid, too proud, even for all that muscle - no wonder the Thalmor zealots had been so able to crush them underfoot.

“You going to kill her if I say she isn’t?”

“Now lass, we’re not going to kill anyone.” The man chuckled and shook the ground with the sound.

“Right. Seeing as I do not believe you - Yes, she is my friend. Totally best friend. More like sisters, really. So if you would, put her down, that would be splendid.”

“Is that so, girl?”

“Yes,” Katherine squinted. Was he really that stupid or did he not recognize her? Which of course, would make him stupider still. “Don’t you recognize me, Galmar?” She flashed her best smile, despite how badly it hurt when she did. The effect took seconds that seemed to stretch on into hours while the Bear considered her words.

“Oh, nine bloody hells.” He said and dropped the dark elf unceremoniously on the ground. “The singer.”

\- - - - -

They tied the dark elf again, leaning her on the opposite side of Katherine’s tent pole. For an hour, maybe more as time is funny in captivity, the dark elf woman grunted and shifted until she heaved heavy breaths and hung her head. Katherine watched the pattern of light move through the day outside the little sliver of parted canvas.  
She listened to the voices outside, trying to make out as much conversation as she could. Her head still felt under the water, so it was not an easy task. She worried over Brynjolf, wondering if he was caught as well, right in the same camp. Or bloody hells, he might be dead, who knew if he had been able to shake off the Imperials at all. That thought hung Katherine’s head as well, and sent a shivering pang through her chest. Wonderful, she thought, of course she would be imprisoned -- likely executed -- the very moment she fell hard on love. 

As the sun began to set, the dark elf resumed her bonded struggle. Katherine was hungry and her head felt heavy and sore, so the distraction was most certainly unwelcome.

“Will you just stay still? Gods be damned, we are not getting out so stop bloody trying.”

“Shut your mouth, child. It is you who put us here. Now, run your ropes against mine. Any luck and I’ll get us both out. Then, I’ll kill you and leave your pretty corpse for the blasted Nords.”

“Oh sod off, will you? We’re alive, no?”

“For now. Perhaps a clean death by those who were chasing you would have been preferable. I’ve no interest in seeing what these soldiers want of us.”

“Probably the same thing the others wanted, I suspect.” Katherine sighed. The dark elf was right, mostly. And Katherine wanted nothing more than to get back to Brynjolf and the job. “What’s your name?”

“Farrun.” The dark elf said. “And you, Breton?”

“Katherine.” Kat shifted her arms at an obnoxious angle but it was enough purchase to start wearing away at both of their bonds. “Sorry I pushed you over that waterfall.”

The dark elf grunted and they worked their ropes in silence.

\- - - - -

“They are spies, Ulfric. We should be done with them and move on. We have stayed here too long.”

“My friend, your advice while welcome, is in this case wrong.” Ulfric did not look up from the missive. He crumpled the simpering note from Jarl Laila. He was growing tired of the woman’s machinations. “Lady Katherine’s clothes were torn and we know there are Imperials in the area. Use your eyes, Galmar.” Ulfric rubbed palms into his eyes. “Perhaps she was caught after we left Solitude. We cannot know.”

“Do not trust her, Ulfric.” Galmar did not trust the girl, or singers for that matter. And, if Ulfric was right, that girl was a -- no, the daughter of the Thieves’ Guild. Dangerous and foolish, though he would never voice that aloud.

“I am aware. She is … She’s no threat, I assure you.” Galmar nodded though he still did not trust this Lady Katherine. “And she helped us. It was great risk for her, as much as it was for us.”

“The gray-skin is a fighter, Ulfric. What of her?”

“Yes, the dark elf.” Ulfric considered for a moment. “Bring her to me. And have Festus look over Lady Katherine. She was fitful, I am to understand.”

\- - - - -

“Where did you come from, elf?” The man wore a helm made of the head of a bear. It was garish.

She gave him no answer but to keep his stare.

“Answer me.” He had tied her hands to the arms of the thick wooden chair, her feet bound together in a tight chain. He stunk of filth and mead; he probably had not bathed in days – or ancestors it could have been the matted fur of his armor and helm.

“Are you a refugee? Your kind are not welcome here.” His mead-soaked breath hit like stones against her nose. “Can't afford to send you back. Guess we'll have to cut you if you don't want to talk.” She could not keep down the snarl come from the pit of her stomach.

“Galmar – Leave us.” The man in the long gray cloak interrupted. He strode toward the man dressed in the stinking furs. “She has done nothing to warrant such threats.” He crossed broad arms and watched as the heavier set Nord left the humid little tent.

Farrun did not break the man's stare. She figured the random thought of his face being handsome could be attributed to those louts back at Jorrvaskr. Aela would laugh if the woman had the capacity to read thoughts. He watched her as well, his mind working over questions and answers he figured she would give. Well, Farrun was no refugee and would not be treated as such.

“I am no refugee.” She held her chin high. “And I am no spy.”

“Of that, I am aware. Do you have a name?”

“Do you?” Farrun spit. If they were going to kill her, they better get on with it.

“Ulfric.” The man pulled a chair and sat himself down. “Jarl Ulfric. There is no need for open hostility.”

“Then untie me. Let me go.” Farrun inhaled sharply, curious now as to the man’s demeanor. He was smiling, talking with an air of boredom. And he moved behind her in long strides and she heard the sound of cut rope.  
“Hm, curious how this rope fraying so soon. I will have to speak to Galmar on the condition of our supplies.” He returned to his chair as Farrun rubbed her reddened wrists. “Will you answer a few questions before I let you go?”

“Are you letting the Breton go too?”

“No,” Ulfric sighed. “She … I know you are no spy.”

“And you think she is?” Farrun searched Ulfric’s face. There was something he was not saying and something else in the calm veneer surrounding the redheaded Breton girl. But, she was still just a girl. Farrun had never been good at guessing human ages, but this one seemed young. Far too young for a spy, at any rate.

“Where do you call home, Farrun?” Her skin heated at the sound of her name, even above the dank humidity of the tent.

“Whiterun.” She said. Farrun would answer his questions. It was only fair, as he had untied her.

“Aye, Balgruuf’s lands.” Ulfric nodded. “You do not have the look of a farmer. And your armor,” he nodded toward her leather & chain cuirass. “The chain is Skyforge steel, is it not? You are one of Kodlak’s?”

“I am.”

“How is the Old Man? It has been an age since I last had the honor of feasting him.”

“Kodlak is well, or so he was when I last saw him. I have not been home in nearly three span.”

“I shall not keep your longer than I would have need.” Ulfric stood, motioning for her to do the same.

“And the Breton?” Farrun had no cause to care about the girl, or her fate - she would have brought it upon herself after all. “Will she be let go as well?”

The ground shook as they stepped out the tent. Farrun watched large boulders slam into the ground, kicking up dust and chunks of earth. Men and women scrambled about the camp, putting out fires and ducking out the way of the falling stones. Ulfric pulled her arm and took off in a run. His pace did not relent until they had crossed the camp to the tent where Katherine was last. It was on fire and they could hear the girl screaming mad inside.

\- - - - -

Riften came into his sights just as the sun was rising. The city, usually loud & bustling and heard outside the walls, was quiet. He could make out the sound of waves. He felt sluggish, out of body as he pushed open the main gate.

Katherine was dead, if the cats were to be believed. As her sister lay dying, the other confessed she had watched the girl tumble over the falls and not crop up from the lake. The cat had said the Imperials chased her, tore her clothes and drove her over the edge. The cat had said she was better off. Brynjolf first cut the ears, then the tail, then those creepy yellow eyes. He left her howling in the dark woods. 

He made a straight path for the Ratways, wishing so desperately for his little bed in the corner of the Cistern. Being on the road reminds him why he never leaves the city. He was not made for sleeping on cold, hard ground.

Brynjolf paused at the door of the Ragged Flagon. He was two days late and without the girl. Mercer would skin him, most likely. But, there was nothing to be done. He shouldered through the door and made his way to the back offices. Dirge was passed out at his usual table, though when Brynjolf passed he raised a sleepy head and muttered a few ignominious insults before clunking back into dreamland.

Candles were still lit in Mercer’s office and Brynjolf could hear the man behind the crack in the door. The familiar scrawling and muttering that danced a cloud around the Guildmaster’s head. It was a comforting noise, almost.

_Knock, Knock_ \- “Mercer?”

The man was at the door in a flash and looking haggard. On any normal day, Mercer had an affinity for kempt hair and a clean-shaven face. Today, it was unwashed, matted and his beard cropping up in shaggy bits around his chin. And his eyes - silver & gold - were wild and sleep deprived.

“Where is she?” Mercer spat through clenched teeth. Brynjolf pushed past him and took a seat, groaning when he put undue pressure on his bruised legs.

“Where is Katherine?” Mercer asked again. Brynjolf quirked a brow over his impatience. In all his years, this was more a first than the worry he overheard with Vex. Mercer seemed out of sorts and ready to begin slitting throats at his earliest convenience. 

“She’s dead, Mercer. We never made it. We got accosted by the Legion.” Brynjolf should have followed her instead of trying to talk down the drunken louts. He should have made sure no one had been circling the camp before he shoved her out the back. But, this was business and Katherine, sure as there are Nine, knew what she was involved in.

“Dead?” Mercer rang his hands and his silvery gold eyes turned suddenly vacant. “You … are sure?”

“Yes. Also ran into Maven’s little pets.” Brynjolf hissed. He was not in the best of moods, in fact, he was sure this was one of his worst. He was not akin to such failure, such absolute and horrific failure of a job. And this was a simple pickup! There should have been no incident, none whatsoever. And Katherine … it seemed almost unfair that she had died so easily. Like a cruel joke.

“Yes … the assassins … I’ll have to make arrangements. Write letters. Did you see Tonilia in the Flagon?” Mercer stood and began to pace and his speech matched the sudden erraticness of his behaviour. “I’ll need to speak with her. Right away … Dead, by the Nine …” Brynjolf watched this all with curiosity and a growing sense of incredulity.

“Who was she, Mercer? That you would make arrangements for a freelancer?” A rush of unwarranted anger flared in him. She had been nothing but a thorn, disrupting business for the Guild, leading them on a wild chase for a children’s tale and then dying when her own damnable ego failed her. Brynjolf should have seen it from the first.

“Freelancer?” Mercer whirled. “She was no freelancer. She was my daughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say, killing the twin cats made me really sad. Very rarely does something I write make me laugh aloud, even months later. They still do, because they were (clearly) inspired by the twin Siamese cats from 'Lady & the Tramp'.


	8. How it Came to Pass

“Uncle, I’m so bloody bored.” She lounged in the deep windowsill, head tapping against the tempered glass pane. It had been raining for a week straight and today was the first day it had stopped. Still, the ground remained sodden and the mud came well past your knees. It would be another day until business in Solitude would return to normal.

“Mind your tongue, girl.” Her mother’s mouth, that one, Bendt thought.

“I’ll bloody well curse if I bloody well mean to.” She kicked her legs and stuck out her tongue.

“Like a child, and t’ think you want me t’ treat you all grown.” He shook his head and continued on his work, bread wouldn’t bake itself after all.

She _harumphed_ and stuck a finger in the bowl of dough. He made to slap her hand away, but she was quick as ever and spun just out of reach. If her father allowed, he would gladly let her roam outside the city walls, but he could not risk it. Mercer had already assured with coin and muscle that she was to stay hidden. And she had for these past twenty years.

“If you’re so bloody well bored, you could go down to Evette’s stall and see if’n she has some work for ya.” He tossed a pinch of flour and she sidestepped, earning only a few little flakes.

“And then she’ll just make me stand there and smile. She says I’m too pretty to labor.”

Most girls would have found that compliment just as such, a compliment. But not Katherine. No, his little niece-by-association could never stand being called pretty. She was always the girl dogging after the little boys and begging them to let her play. She outdid them in archery and the sword by the time she was twelve. And she had always been a waif, and those eyes -- huge and so very blue, framed by a round face, button nose and knee-staggering smile. She was just like her mother in that - unassuming to the fault of everyone around her.

“Aye, aye, I know your complaint. But coin is coin, you know that.” He slid the hammered silver platter into the kiln and closed the metal door. She had moved, taking to leaning on his cupboards.

“When is Father coming next?” Her eyes always went far away when she asked this question.

“Next month, I should suspect.”

“Oh. Well, he’ll be in time for the Lavender Festival.”

“I know he’ll be pleased t’ hear ya sing, Little Kat.”

Katherine smiled at him. Her father would not be coming north any time soon, but Bendt had neither heart nor steel to tell her. They were going on three years with Mercer keeping away from Solitude, from his only daughter. The thought made Bendt more than just a little angry and the next ball of dough slammed on to his counter with a hard thwack.

“Pardon,” followed a knock that turned both Bendt and Katherine’s attention.

“Ah, Bolgeir!” Katherine went giddy at the sight of the queen’s guardsman. Bendt had suspected the two were very close and he wondered just what the man’s intentions might be. He wondered if he should send word to Mercer; it wouldn’t be the first time he had asked to keep tabs on his daughter’s social life. On the other hand, Little Kat was not so little anymore. Five-and-twenty … By and by, how the years fly, Bendt thought. Perhaps he wouldn’t send word, just once, a match with a guardsman would be a good one.

“Good day, my lady.” The tall Nord smiled down at Katherine, who was fidgeting with one of the ribbons on her dress. “Are you busy this evening?”

“No,” Katherine turned a brow at Bendt and he nodded. “Why, is something the matter?” Katherine was bouncing on her feet, Bendt noticed. It seemed she was taken with the lad herself. It made him smile to see the young ones so carefree.

“High King Torygg has requested you perform this evening while he entertains Jarl Ulfric.”

“Are you pulling my leg, Bolgeir?” She pushed the man’s armored shoulder playfully. “Torygg always asks after Pantea.”

“It was Jarl Ulfric’s request, my lady. It seems he saw your last performance at the Winking Skeever.” Bolgeir rubbed where she had touched, though Bendt doubted he felt anything through the heavy steel he always wore.

“Oh,” Katherine blushed. “I see.”

“I will return after dark to escort you.”

“Yes, of course.” It seemed to Bendt that Little Kat was taken aback by the request. He wondered if she had known the Jarl of Windhelm was even in attendance.

She watched Ser Bolgeir leave, a faint fidget in her fingers.

“Good for you, Little Kat.” Bendt beamed for his niece-by-association. She had been right on one thing, though, the King hardly requested anyone but Pantea for his court entertainments. No doubt there would be jealousy and harsh words soon enough. Not that he doubted Katherine’s ability to deal with such pettiness, but he knew how such could grate on her nerves.

\- - - - -

She wore a loose gown, a deep, nearly black shade of blue that Illdi said complimented her eyes. It was cut low, baring her shoulders and the faintest line of her breasts. She felt nude when it was laced together. Illdi said the blush would fade, but Katherine was not so sure of that. Bolgeir had come, as he said, just as the sun went down. His eyes had raked over her hungrily and that had made the blush so much worse.

The palace was splendid as evening made purple and red-gold shadows on the ground. Each window and arrow slit held a sash of color or candle, making the walls themselves seem alive. Huge long banners, one for the royal house and the other for Jarl Ulfric, hung over the main battlements. Bolgeir took her through the kitchen entrance, which was bustling with activity. He placed a large gauntleted hand over the small of her back and led her carefully through the throngs of people. They emerged behind the main dais, where scant conversation and light laughter could be heard.

“Are you ready, my lady? The pipers and fiddlers are already milling about the hall.”

“Y-yes, Bolgeir.” She sucked in a harsh and shuddered breath over her sudden nervousness.

“You’ll be marvelous, my lady, you always are.” The queen’s guardsman removed a steel-plated glove and held her hands. Bolgeir was very sweet, she thought, and if she was not careful she would get lost in those woodsmoke brown eyes.

“Are you ready, Lady Katherine?” The King’s steward, Falk Firebeard materialized from around the corner. She nodded and followed, missing the warmth of Bolgeir’s fingers as soon as it was gone.

“Please keep the din light, my lady. The feast is at third course and we will have you play until dessert is served.” Falk Firebeard said. “You will be asked to stay after, Jarl Ulfric has requested a word.” That shock of information sent her mouth agape and eyes wide, but the curtain was already being parted and the musicians had already taken up a light cantor.

Her feet felt on air as she floated through the expansive hall. Banners of all colors hung from the rafters and what seemed to be thousands of delicate white & gold candles gave off a warm orange glow. King Torygg and his pretty little queen were seated at the high table, Jarl Ulfric to the King’s left. At the lower tables sat the rest of Solitude’s court and a few of Ulfric’s bannermen. They all watched her entrance markedly and with a hush. Pantea’s advice came unbidden to mind, ‘Picture them all in their smalls, you shan't be nervous then’. Katherine swallowed a laugh and took her place between the fiddler and pipers. She showed them three fingers, noting she wanted to begin with ‘A Maiden Fair’.

_Twilight falls, as evening shadows find, There 'neath the stars, a maiden so fair, shone all divine. The moon on high seemed to see her there, alone and melancholy. In her eyes is a light, shining ever so bright, She whispered a small and quiet prayer. She prayed aloud, so one was wont to hear, About a knight who promised home he would appear. But alas the knight was gone, gone and gone and she was left alone. So she would wait, until the earth seemed like to crumble, For her knight to turn up humble._

She shut her eyes as she sang and felt the fiddle’s soft sound wrap around her. Her voice felt sullen and long in the quiet hall. The flute danced in ribbons, echoing her voice in a way she had only ever heard Pantea manage. She let the smirk show on her face, even through the melancholy of the song. Her eyes hardly saw the lordlings and finely dressed ladies, but she certainly felt the ice & green stare of the Jarl Ulfric. He was still, head on his steepled hands and watching her. Only his eyes seemed to move and she was sure her bared skin showed plain red and brought out her freckles.

She finished on a long note and spared a sip of her wine -- it was a fine vintage, snowberries and imported comberries from the southern parts of Morrowind. She wondered if Jarl Ulfric had brought a cask or two from his own stores. He was known to prefer Dunmer spirits, if the courtly rumors were true.

The fiddler tapped her with four fingers next, signaling a dance instead of song. High King Torygg and his little wisp of a queen led the dance and the other highborn followed suit. Only Jarl Ulfric stayed seated, along with his bannermen. Katherine took a rest, flattening herself against a wall while the fiddler and pipers set the room into higher spirits.

“You are very talented, my lady.” A gruff voice interrupted her wandering thoughts and she looked up to see Jarl Ulfric standing at her side. He too was watching the dancers, but the air around him stated otherwise. He did not seem to see them, though his eyes followed every move.

“I thank you, my Jarl.” She sipped her wine carefully. “I am to understand that you saw my performance and requested me specifically.” He stood nearly two heads taller than her, and his shoulders were so broad she was sure he could wrap his arms around her twice. And that brought an even more ruddy blush and gooseflesh to her skin. “I am most honoured.”

“You played the harp beautifully. I was hoping to see you play again.” He leaned toward her now and those eyes felt like to pierce through her for their intensity.

“A-after the dance, most like.” She tipped her wine glass and swallowed harshly. It was a rarity for anyone to make her nervous, but what should she expect from a private word with a Jarl? And Ulfric … his reputation were like the old stories of heroes. A great soldier, brilliant tactician … if it had been allowed, the Empire would have done well to throw Ulfric and his men at the full bulk of Thalmor still waging their war across the lands.

“Am I making you uncomfortable, my lady?” Jarl Ulfric chuckled as he spoke. “I did not intend …”

“N-no,” she managed, “Not at all. It’s just …” she paused when the dance slowed, thinking it would be her easy exit, but the musicians picked up again. “If I may be bold, my Jarl.”

“You may.”

“Ever since I was a little girl …” Oh, by the Divines she must be going mad. “I always thought you were … very brave. My uncle would always tell me stories of how you threw the Madmen from the Reach.” 

She felt half a fool as her words came out. No one knew about her little crush, or how she thought how wondrous it would be to fight a war by the side of a great warrior such as Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. But, Evette had told her she would never be a woman-warrior. And Father had seen her martial training stopped completely on his last visit. Not that she listened, it was just getting difficult to find time to train with Bolgeir with her new duties at the College and his post as the queen’s guard.

“Would you honor this brave man with a dance?” He smiled softly at her and extended a hand.

It was warm to touch, almost feverish. Her feet felt like clouds as he led her around the floor. He was certainly a soldier, tried & true, but he could dance as any highborn man could. She felt like an overgrown, fat and witless child, however, she had never been skilled at formal dance -- it was why she stuck to song and her harp. But, onlookers would have no idea, she thought, he was an excellent lead and far too decent to ignore the three times she had stepped on his toes.

“I’m sorry,” she winced and whispered when it happened a fourth. She prayed he didn’t think her foolish. 

“Not at all, my lady.” He drew her closer then and she could smell him -- warm, like pines and sweet like fresh water. It was the smell of winter, of snow and of the promise of a spring sun. “My late wife had no talent for the dance, as well.” She felt a blush spread to her ears. She had not known he was married, or that he had lost her.

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“As am I, my lady. She was …”

The song ended and he thanked her for the dance. Katherine again took her place by the fiddler as he began to play. ‘The Bachelor and The Bride’ was one of Katherine’s personal favorites and she felt it especially appropriate considering what Jarl Ulfric had just confided.

_There's a wrinkle in the water, Where we laid our first daughter. And I think the wind blows so sweetly there, Over there … And the windows and the cinders; And the willows in the timbers; The infernal rattling of the rain, Still remains … "But I," said the bachelor to the bride, "Am not waiting for tonight. No, I, I will box your ears And leave you here stripped bare." Hear the corncrakes, and the deer hooves, And the sleet rain on the slate roof. A medallion locked inside her hands … In her hands … And his fingers, are they telling, Of the barren of her belly? Do his calluses cure her furrowed brow? Even now?_

She watched him as she sang, those piercing eyes and tired lines were intent, focused on her. Was this what Father warned over? What he made Bendt swear to protect her from? The wants of wolfish men? She could not picture the Jarl being such a man, though it was not unheard of for leaders to be frothing mad. He did not strike her this way, not in the least. She felt drawn to him, as though today she was supposed to meet him, to know his secrets. The feeling was a nervous one, a cold wash that spread through her chest as she sang.

\- - - - -

The rain had marked the feast’s conclusion. Katherine watched with a tired grin as the many nobles wandered, some swaying from the drink, from the great hall. In truth, she was waiting for Bolgeir who had promised to walk her home. Katherine knew Uncle Bendt would worry and likely send a craggy note to Father about her absence.

“Lady Katherine?” She turned to the voice, a tall and lean man with long blond hair stood at military-attention. He wore the sigil of Jarl Ulfric’s house - a white, snarling bear on a deep blue field.

“Yes, messere?”

“Jarl Ulfric would have a word.”

Katherine’s heart hammered in her chest as she followed the large guardsman. He did not speak or look at her as they walked. She had been hoping the Jarl had forgotten her, but she knew that would be foolish. He had not stopped watching her while she sang and when she played the harp it was as though he was behind her, following her hands with his own. She felt small crossing the dimly lit halls and missed the lively din that still mulled around the great hall. It was quiet in the guest wing and at every door a man in blue & brown stood at the ready. It seemed the Jarl did not trust his host well enough. For every royal guardsmen she noted two of Ulfric’s sworn men.

The guardsman opened a door for her but did not enter after her. He shut the door and she heard the lock turn. Jarl Ulfric sat a long table, alone and with fading candle light. The fire in the hearth was low as well, nearly just ash & embers. He dipped his quill and scratched a few words before he set it down. He took study of her for a moment and Katherine stood stock still by the door.

“Lady Katherine,” he said as he stood, “I must apologize for calling on you, you must be tired.”

“It is no trouble, my Jarl.” She was unsure what to do with her hands. Nor could she slap herself for the heat she knew to be on her face.

“Please, have a seat.” He motioned to a small solar and sat on one of the high-backed and cushioned chairs. She sat next to him, a twin to the chair on which he sat, though smaller, made for a woman.

“I am sorry if I make you nervous, my lady.” He smiled and relaxed his posture. “You are trembling.” He reached out for her hands and they felt small in his.

“I …” I’ve never been alone with a man other than Bolgeir before, and we just whack each other with driftwood. “I …” I’ve never had someone treat me this kindly, or like a woman grown, or … “I …”

“I simply mean to ask you of your father.”

“What?” Katherine’s mind went blank - her … father? “My father?” Had she been foolish enough to think that the Jarl would demand something of her? Yes, she was remotely sure that yes, she was foolish. And also relieved. Very, very relieved.

“Yes. I am to understand that your father is Mercer Frey. Is this correct?” Katherine’s heart felt about to stop in her chest. She would rather that occur than have to lie, again, about her only living parent.

“My father is dead. He died when I was just a little girl. My uncle Bendt -” Ulfric waved a hand.

“Pardon, my lady, but do not feed me lies. I have had a very trying day and would like to retire as soon as possible. I had meant to ask this of you when we danced, but you were called back.” Those studious eyes had turned harsh in a blink. They sought out her lie and called on it, bringing it by the scruff to forefront.

“Yes, Jarl Ulfric. Mercer Frey is my father.” Katherine understood business, if nothing else. One had to have a cursory knowledge as a bard. And, even though they lived apart and saw each other rarely, Uncle Bendt always said she was her father’s spitting image, though she had been lucky to have her mother’s looks. “Are you after his head?” It was a legitimate question. Other noble powers had sought her out before, though she always had the wherewithal to waylay them or avoid. It seemed the stories were true then. Shrewd and methodical was the way of the Bear.

“No, my lady. Your father has little to fear of me.” Ulfric sighed. “I have a proposition for you.”

She stared at him, the only sound between her and the weighted way he spoke were the crackling embers of the fire. He stood, prodding them with ease and without the intensity of what had passed between them. He turned back, shoulders straight and harsh eyes bearing down on her. 

“If this is not about my father, what is it then?” She asked, wondering if she would be cut down or harmed if she spoke a wrong word. 

“Do the other courtiers know who you are kin to? Do they know of your close ties to the so-called Guild of Thieves?” He spoke rhetorically, Father and Uncle Bendt had made quite sure that Katherine was portrayed as the last line of the Frey family, a vassal of High Rock. 

“They do not.” She had no choice but to respond truthfully -- this man knew much. 

“And if they did? How soon do you think you would be ousted from the city?” Katherine’s heart fell. She thought of Bolgeir, so righteous and good, his abhorrence to thievery. He would hate her, curse her name, surely. “How long before your Uncle Bendt is put down as a Guild dog?” 

“My Uncle has no ties to the Guild. He is a good man and I’ll not have you threaten him.” She stood up this time, imposing her full height -- not much next to the Nord before her. 

“Then you will help me.” He crossed his arms and bent at the waist to meet her eyes. “You will go to Torryg’s chambers and seduce him. Elisif will discover you and her guards will arrest you.” 

“I am no whore.” Katherine hissed. She had never lain with a man before and would not do so simply because this man threatened her. Family be damned, her dignity was worth more than that. Set aside she had known Torryg her entire life, Elisif as well had played with them as children. 

“You are a singer. There is little difference.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Once this has happened, I will speak out in your defence, while no doubt Torryg will decry that he was tricked by your wiley womanly ways.” She thought of Torryg’s face, his innocent, still so childlike face. He was only a year older than her and more sheltered than any king rightly should be. If his father had not died so early -- “My men will act to free you, causing disturbance with his guardforce. Once you are free, a man will take you from the city, to Windhelm. You will be safe there, honored for your assistance.” He spoke so easily, as though this were some sort of blessing. She knew she was being played as a pawn. 

“You insult my honor, threaten my family all for what? Gold? You think I care for such things?” 

“You will do this, I have no doubt.” He smiled then, a depreciative grin Katherine felt crawling under her skin. “You will do this because you have always shown strange loyalty to the Old Ways, more than any Breton I have ever met. You are able to capture men and bind them with your words, a useful gift. You will do this because deep down, you are a patriot and Skyrim your home.” 

“And if I refuse?” 

“Then you will die, much like Torryg will die. Much like the Empire that is crumbling around us.” He sighed and returned to his seat, crossing a leg over the other and picking dust from his knees. “Do not mistake this for a strongarm that can only see a foot in front of his face. This is about what is right, Katherine Frey. I am offering you an opportunity. I am offering you a different life.”

“You are offering me nothing, Jarl Ulfric. Gold, a title, a stain on my dignity. I see little in the way of a different life.” 

“You act as though there is choice. The events have already been put into motion. Your performance this evening was for Torryg’s benefit. It is commonly known the lad is smitten with you. You tell me that you knew not of this?” 

Katherine’s face felt boiling hot. She had known, yes, the King had fancied her. He had since they were children -- something Elisif, his betrothed, had always held as insult for Katherine being of Breton stock. But it was a child’s love, not one to topple kingdoms or unions. But aside from the occasionally incognito sight at her performances, he had never laid a hand on her. And, if Elisif were to be believed, not her either. 

“He will refuse me.” Her normally perfunctory voice was failing her. “Torryg is honourable. You cannot expect him to lay with another woman, to lay with me.” She sighed, “he loves Elisif.” She felt a wash of shame, he didn’t love Katherine. She may have loved Torryg once, if she had ever considered herself above her position. Even if he did fancy her, he was still the boy with large teeth and over large eyes. A sweet child playing at king. 

“He may, but I have taken steps to ensure that he does not.” Jarl Ulfric smiled. “Have you ever heard of greenmote?”


	9. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, Helgen.

“So, the boss’ daughter.” Delvin smirked into his mead.

“I can’t believe how stupid you are.” Vex shook her head.

Tonilia shot him scathing looks, Dirge growled at him when he passed. Brynjolf stayed silent, kept his eyes to the floor. It had been going on like this for nearly two weeks. Brynjolf could not blame them - first, the shock that Mercer once had a wife and daughter, second that she was the one who screwed them and third that she was dead. Mercer had been … different? No, that was not quite the right word. In many ways he was the same as ever - gruff, greedy and quick tempered. But now, there was something else. A deep prevailing silence that filled and choked the room. 

“I hear she looked like her mother.” Delvin said. He seemed the only one unaffected, even amused.

“You lot shut your mouths.” Tonilia called. “Bryn -” She waved him over. He was grateful to be away from them all, his dearest friends. They were driving him mad.

Tonilia lead him through the back door of the Flagon and into the Cistern. It was the middle of the day so the place was empty other than the little flickering lights from Mercer’s office. The Guildmaster was not there, however. 

“Sit down, boy.”

“Oi, Tonilia, boy?” He shook his head, suddenly exhausted. “You haven’t called me that since I was a boy.” He startled at the soft chuckle that sauntered into his words. It felt dry and hollow and then he realized it had been over two weeks since, well … He rubbed at his mouth and chin, skin aflame with the memory of Katherine’s kiss.

“You’re lucky Mercer hasn’t lobbed off your head.” Tonilia sat across from him and crossed her arms. She had such a way about her you would think you were looking into the eyes of Ysgramor himself. It was more than a little unnerving. But, most days Tonilia had a serene quality, a matronly quality.

“I know that.”

“Do you? That why you let all the rest of them rats chide you?” She scoffed. “Best keep them and your mouth shut, you hear? No more talk of Little Kat, got it?”

“Yeah, Tonilia. I hear you.” He sighed. “Though, I have to ask …” He had not voiced this in two weeks, for fear they would mark him crazy or brand him a liar. All thieves were liars, but never among their own. And even he did not rightly believe it - it was just never wise to ignore someone’s dying words, even an assassin. “What if she’s not dead?”

“Beg your pardon? You said yourself -”

“I said,” that flash anger was rising again. “I said that the assassins watched her go over the waterfall. They said she never came back up.”

“And you killed them, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then ain’t no reason to talk or think on it more. She’s dead. She’d come home if she weren’t.” Tonilia stood and made her way to the door. “And don’t go repeating that. Bad enough you said it aloud. You know these walls got ears.”

\- - - - -

She came to on a wagon. It was rocking back and forth. She sat up, using her shoulders to maneuver. Her hands were tied in her lap. She blinked her vision into focus and settled her sights on the others. The dark elf and a blond man were in her immediate line.

“Good. You're finally awake.” The blond man said. Katherine recognized him. He was the one who Ulfric had watch her while they had been in Solitude. “Weren’t sure you would.”

“What happened?”

“Imperials,” muttered the dark elf. The elf, Farrun, leaned against the wall of the rocking cart and shut her eyes. “It’s always Imperials.”

Katherine remembered very little beyond the first boulder crashing through the roof of her tent. It had knocked aside the brazier and flames devoured the canvas and sweet-smelling rushes. She had renewed and reinvigorated her efforts to loosen her hands, but the fires came much too fast and the smoke had filled her lungs almost instantly. She remembered praying, crying out and pleading, but no one came even when her eyes had rolled back.

But, someone did. She was alive, wasn’t she?

Helgen’s walls came into view before she could press her memory further. The enormous stone keep of the Imperial Legion loomed over the small city and cast dark, perilous shadows over it all. The wagons lurched through the gate and Katherine saw the block first. The headsman stood aside, still as stone and ready to give his axe its fill. Katherine’s stomach plummeted.

“Helgen,” said the blond man to no one in particular. “I used to be sweet on a girl here when I was young.” He smiled sadly and turned to Katherine.

“They’re going to kill us.” She said quietly, almost afraid to say it aloud, like it was not truly happening until she said it. She looked at the other two men in the cart - Ulfric, bound and gagged, though that was expected and another, a dirty ragged man who looked ready to die now, rather than wait for the headsman.

“Sovngarde awaits.” The blond man spoke solemn.

“For you, Nord.” Farrun scoffed. “For us, there is nothing.”

“Akatosh, Arkay, Dibella, Mara save us,” the ragged man began to pray. “Please, please let me wake.” He repeated, over and over as though he would indeed wake from some communal nightmare. Katherine wished he would just stop.

The gates opened and people milled about the center of town. Helgen was small, compared to the rest of the cities dotting Skyrim’s landscape, but an execution would always bring outside spectators. Nords and their righteous deaths, Katherine sighed, they were truly mad, all of them completely bonkers.

\- - - - -

The Imperials called names, but they did not have Katherine or Farrun among them. The two women were set aside while the six or seven carts of captured Stormcloaks were offloaded. Katherine found it hard to breathe and the eyes of the villagers held such disdain, and even though it was not for her but for Jarl Ulfric, it burned her skin. And her dark elf compatriot, well, she seemed almost at ease.

“What’s your name, girl?”

“Katherine.”

“Why have you come to Skyrim?”

“I live in Solitude.” Even in her final moments they could never fathom a Breton calling this wretched country home. All her life she has lived in this land and even lifelong neighbors saw her as a foreigner.

The Imperials did not care and Katherine did not press them further. She was a Breton, that was all that mattered. She was just a Breton in a land full of Nords and Imperials, one more racist than the next. They asked Farrun the same questions, though rightly, they did not call her ‘girl’. The guards did not care about her, either. Katherine watched with half an eye and half an ear as the dark elf spit and cursed the guardsmen. It was more interesting than the other half that contemplated what was to come next.

“Guardsman,” a man called, clad head-to-toe in fur & steel with a large lumbering great sword strapped to his back. “Guardsman!” He called again, and Farrun turned. Her sharp eye was now softened, even with their demise so close Katherine could taste it. How odd.

“Vilkas! Ancestors be praised!” Farrun answered. The stalwart woman then smiled and Katherine was sure she had never seen a sight so rare.

“By Order of the Companions of Whiterun, release this woman. I am Vilkas, Second only to the great Kodlak Whitemane. She is one of ours.” The man spoke as he approached, slowing his gait and allowing ferocity to enter his exorbitant speech. It seemed to Katherine that no matter what anyone said, the Imperials seemed hellbent on lobbing some heads.

But, the guardsman cut Farrun’s bonds. The dark elf rubbed her wrists and joined the man in fur & steel. And Katherine stayed still tied.

“Hey!” Katherine called as Farrun and the man turned toward the path out of the village. “What about me? I’m not a Stormcloak, either!”

“Are you a Companion, girl?” The Imperial Captain spoke now, a Redguard woman who scoffed and rolled honey eyes in Katherine’s direction.

“No, but I’m not a foreigner either! I’m from bloody Solitude! I’m bloody fucking highborn, you twit!”

The Captain reared back and a fully-plated fist connected with Katherine’s jaw. With ropes around her hands and feet she went down very fast and very hard. She felt blood from her nose and her ears rang as she struggled to stand. Through split vision painted a sickening shade around the edges, she could see Farrun and the man leaving the village, sparing no glance to their backs.

Katherine could feel the anger rolling through her now. It was consuming the sour taste of defeat and invigorating her. She had always known to rely solely on herself, but the sight of the blasted dark elf and capable fellow walking away, well, that was something else. It was her last effort, all she could have done to save herself. Now, now all she had was fury.

She stood tall and straightened her shoulders. She was her father’s daughter and he would not approve of a desperate display. She kept her eyes on the Captain, willing her to burst into flame. Magic had never been Katherine’s strong point, however, and without hands she could do nothing but wish it.

Another guardsman, a Nord in Imperial garb, led her to the others awaiting their end. Katherine was placed next to the blond man, one who had been called ‘Ralof of Riverwood’. He turned sad blue eyes on her and smiled weakly. It was a nice sentiment. Katherine was already gone, in her place the cold and calculated eyes and body of a Bard. She held her lessons close and pretended she was simply on stage. She would not cry for these villagers. She would not scream or shout or plead for mercy. She would get none and she knew it. And despite it all, she was still a sodding Frey.

\- - - - -

Vilkas watched Farrun warily. She kept a brisk pace on the road, eyes only for the first sight of Whiterun. She was near three span overdue and many thought her dead. But never Kodlak. He had not accepted that she had simply died alone and on a job. He had said Farrun was greater, stronger than that, more than they ever would be. He followed her, unsure if he were truly dreaming. Was this a ghost? A paltry vision of the woman he had missed so profusely in thinking she was dead? Or was she real? True and real and solid, a lithe brick wall he longed to know the feel of.

“Are you hungry, Farrun?” He asked, bringing up his pace to walk beside her.

“I am not,” she said but her stomach growled as she spoke, proving the lie of her words. He smiled, happy she was most assuredly alive.

“Let us take a break, hm? Whiterun will wait.”

They steered themselves from the road, startling a few ground-nesting birds as they went. A small copse opened over the rolling valleys and you could see the chimneys & rooftops of Helgen looking much like a painting. He put down a cloak and they sat, staring off into the horizon. They were half a day from Whiterun and it was still before noon. He handed off a thick heel of bread and apple, which Farrun began to rip apart with her knife and teeth.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Farrun turned her good eye toward him. She chewed slowly and he did the same, though with a slight quirk in his brow.

“You may ask, I know you wish to.” She spoke with a mouthful of bread.

“I’ll admit, I had not expected to find you on the headsman block.” He set down his half-eaten bread and gave her full attention. Farrun was a woman of few words, but as Vilkas had come to notice, when she spoke, she did so with clarity and honesty. It was a fine rarity.

“You do not think me guilty?” Farrun’s eyebrows went into her hairline. She seemed almost amused that he had not even considered, until she spoke of course, that she would be guilty of something horrific enough to warrant death. The thought had never even entered his mind.

“Are you? I suppose you have been gone for some time.” He sighed.

“No.” Farrun took a long pull on the waterskin, emptying it all save a swallow or two. “That girl, the little redhead?” Vilkas nodded. “She … She threw me over a waterfall.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I was packing up, ready to come home,” Vilkas could not help the grin that spread across his face at her use of the word ‘home’. “And she came out of the woods, clothes all torn and then she asked if I could swim.” Farrun popped the last bit of bread in her mouth. “And then she just ran into me and pushed us over the side of a waterfall.” Farrun sighed heavily. “She was being chased by Imperials.” She shook her head.

“We hit the lake and I thought we would drown, she was sodding heavy for being so small, but some soldiers pulled us out. Stormcloaks, clearly.” Farrun began to peel the last of the skin from her apple. “They tied us, interrogated us, probably would have killed us both if the Imperials hadn’t attacked their camp.” She shook her head again and sneered.

“So that was Ulfric Stormcloak, then.” Vilkas had thought he had recognized the man with a gag around his mouth. Kodlak had a suite in the Palace of Kings and often feasted with Jarl Ulfric and his men.

“Yes, so they took us all. They bound us all together and took us to Helgen.” Farrun stood and dusted the knees of her leathers. They were badly worn and caked in layers of dust, mud and blood. “You know the rest.” She smiled and looked all the sudden tired. “Why were you there?” She stretched her lanky arms over her head.

“A fugitive from the Keep escaped. They asked of our assistance.” He shrugged. He leaned on elbows, letting the sun hit him full in the face. “Never found the bloke -”

A great roar rumbled and broke the sky. It flashed over their heads and shook the ground under them. Farrun fell to her knees for the force of it was the most powerful thing Vilkas had ever felt. They watched a great beast, full of blackened scale and sharp angled spikes circle and dive for the small city of Helgen.

“ _Ancestors,_ ” Farrun stood, coughing. She offered him a hand and turned her sights down toward the now burning city. They could hear the villagers screaming. “Is that … is that a -” The beast roared again, threw them down once more and the carrion of wails came even more brutal and deafening to their ears.


	10. Unbound

She had a boot on her back. Through the roughspun tunic they had given her she could feel the the sharpened steel tip. Not that it really mattered, Katherine thought idly, the headsman would make that pain seem like nothing more than a cool breeze. She had tried to distract her thoughts, and had been doing very well right up until they called her name and shoved her toward the block.

They did not even remove the now-headless man who had gone before her. She could smell his death and from her vantage she stared right into his dead, so very dead, eyes. She turned her head and decided, though not rightly a better sight, to watch the headsman. She wondered if he had a family, a daughter. He brought his axe to bear and Katherine did not shut her eyes or grimace, she would go to death as well as any other. She may be Breton, born & bred, but she was of Skyrim as much as the blasted Nords. She knew cold, she knew death and the Nine. 

She saw the creature long before she heard its roar. The sky roiled with fire. The ground shook and Katherine ducked her head to keep from falling over. It stopped when the creature landed on top of the Keep’s battlements. It was black scale and teeth, a long coiling tail and from its mouth, great streaks of fire sprang from rooftop to rooftop.

No one moved, no one breathed. They all watched in dumb horror. All but Katherine, who watched but was not afraid. It was speaking, calling her name though it was not ‘Katherine’ that it called out. Then, the city seemed to burst and flail with activity. The beast took off, circling the city and raining down brimstone and flaming hale. Katherine was knocked aside by the frantic running guardsmen and still damnably tied.

If not losing her head, it seemed she would die today no matter what the gods had in store. And she would rather die in an instant then be cooked alive or trampled. She pushed with her shoulders and back, desperate to get up and stand. If she could stand, she could hobble to a wall, maybe even stop someone long enough to cut her free. Prisoner or no, that was a bloody dragon circling over their heads and no one deserved that fate.

She pushed herself up after much struggle and was promptly blown backward by an exploding shack. Wood and stone flew in bits. She landed against a wall. Then, she felt hands around her waist and she was being dragged. She kicked out her feet and gained a small amount of purchase just before those hands tossed her inside a still-standing building. The cold stone was comforting for the blazing heat outside.

Katherine coughed and spit, clearing ash and smoke from her lungs and mouth. Her vision was watery and struggled to focus, but the gray-cloaked figure leaning down was unmistakable, even in her most addled state.

“Lady Katherine? Are you hurt?” Oh, sodden hells, of course he would be alive.

“N-no, I don’t think -” she coughed again and was unable to control the hacking that followed. “F-fine, just fine.” He did not spend any more time at her side and the blond man - Ralof of Riverwood, as he was so named - took his place. Ralof was kind and offered a smile despite what was happening just outside the walls of the small prison tower they were hiding in. He cut loose her feet and began to start on her hands just when the ground shook once more.

“We have to move! Now!” Ulfric called out.

The other soldiers who could still walk left the injured. There was not a moment to spare. Katherine did not look back at them, even when their pleas turned to throes.

\- - - - -

The old man made the little boy run. Katherine ducked into an alcove and grabbed the child when he joined them. He skidded into her arms and screamed into her shoulder as the dragon flung flame all around them. The stone at Katherine’s back was sizzling on her skin.

The little boy sobbed and clutched her hand and they ran. The old man followed behind them muttering prayers. It did not take them long to run blind into an alley with the beast still circling overhead. Katherine watched as the little boy sobbed and hiccuped, and it seemed the creature was searching for something. Or someone, a small part of her mind supplied.

They sat in the thin shadow of the alley, praying silently & aloud for someone to save them. They had no weapons, no escape - and again Katherine wondered if she really should just lay down and take it. It seemed the fates and gods were bent on snagging her soul today.

“Still alive there?” Called a guardsman overhead. He hopped over the wall and landed next to them, smiling easily amid the swelling destruction around them. “And you prisoner? Got yourself free?” The dragon roared again and let down a stream of fire that cut through an Imperial line nearby. All the men flailed on fire on the ground. And still, this guardsman remained calm. “Come now, let’s go!” He ordered and Katherine, the boy and the old man followed.

With the guardsman leading them, they made a jagged path through the village. Everywhere there were bodies of the dead and dying, some aflame and others simply broken and shapeless forms of flesh. Katherine kept the little boy close. She was more afraid for him than herself, a niggling thought. And the guardsman seemed almost at ease as he lead them through. More than once they all had to dive aside when a house collapsed or fire came raining down from the sky.

“Over there!” The guardsman called. They looked and there was a small patch through the city’s high wall. Katherine put the boy through first and offered her hand to the old man. His eyes were watering, from the smoke or experience on whole, it did not matter. He held her hands to thank her and looked sadly beyond her. Katherine had one foot over the gap when a hand pulled her back.

The guardsman was not letting her go.

“Are you mad?” She hissed.

“You are still a prisoner.” The guardsman said.

“There’s a bloody dragon killing us all, fool!” She tried to yank away but the man had an iron grip.

He shook his head and took off, dragging her with him. She stumbled at first, but he kept her feet level. She would have fought him but she was feeling the weight of defeat of the day. Imprisoned twice, sentenced to die, then a bloody dragon. That should have been enough, but no, a single guardsman decided he would keep his stupid vows until his stupid death. Could he not see how pointless it was? They were all likely to die, at any moment really.

They passed through a large gate and a body landed at their feet. The dragon had begun to pick off archers on the battlements and throw them around like little ragdolls. The worst was that it seemed the enormous creature seemed to be making sport of it. Katherine found it hard to not watch, the whole thing rather fascinating. Terrible, but fascinating.

“Ralof! You damned traitor!” The guardsman called out as he came to a stop.

“Hadvar! Give the girl to me!” The blond man called back. He held an axe, likely pilfered from one of the dead.

“She’s an Imperial prisoner!” Hadvar, the guardsman, answered.

“No I’m bloody not! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!” Katherine screamed and reeled on the man. All her training with Bolgeir came flooding back - a kick first to the knee, then crush the foot, then slam up with a closed fist to break the nose. If all that does not bring him down, kick until you cannot kick any longer. So Katherine did. She kicked until the blond man pulled her off the bleeding and moaning guardsman.

\- - - - -

“I never thought -” Vilkas could hardly see what he was seeing. It was too unreal. “It can’t be -” Farrun stayed silent, appearing by all accounts to be simply watching the destruction below them. “Shouldn’t we …?” He did not want to help and it shamed him. That was a dragon, an object of fear and legend. Up until an hour ago he had not even believed them real.

“And what would we do?” Farrun said. “That village had a hundred or more soldiers and they do not seem to be making any difference.” She was right, he knew it, but the callousness in her voice chilled him to the bone.

“We should help them.” Shouldn’t we? He was not sure.

“Will your honor force you to go down there and die like a swine?” Farrun ran a hand through her hair and faced him. “We cannot help them. Not now and certainly not with only the two of us.” She sighed. “Do you know how to kill a dragon?” She shook her head. “Jarl Balgruff will want to know.”

They turned from the burning village. From the screams of dying children. From the absolute destruction. They turned and took the road home.

\- - - - -

“ _Shor's bones_ ,” Ralof wheezed. He had flipped her onto the ground after he pulled her away from the guardsman. She had been crazed and had he left her there, she would be dead - by guard or beast. “You’re bleeding mad!”

“I am not!” She stood uneasily, rubbing her elbows where she had landed. “They tried to take off my head! And yours, if you need reminding.”

“There was a bloody dragon, girl!” He sighed. “Like in the sodding childrens’ stories. I can hardly believe it.” He could believe it. He saw it, he knew what it was, they all did. But still, to see what you have thought of as only legend …

She hung her head and he felt guilty. She was just a girl, a singer and highborn. This war would be the least fair to her. Ralof went to her side and put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” She said. “I just …”

“Yes, it’s no matter.” He tried to smile again but his mouth would not form. He thought of Ulfric, his Jarl and where he had ended up. The Jarl had commanded him to rescue the girl. He had seen her from the battlements being dragged by the guardsman Hadvar. And he sent Ralof to get her. Only, there was no going back after the dragon landed between them. “Come on, we’ll find a way out.”

The tunnels under the prison keep were winding and wet. The damp soaked into their skin and magnified the smell of the dead. There were bodies everywhere - Stormcloak, Imperial, civilian. They fought as little as possible, unsure how long they would be underground without food or water, so conserving their energy was more important than any vengeance. They snuck past Imperial soldiers and trembling villagers alike.

The girl took a bow from the blood-soaked hands of a dead Imperial. She seemed almost at ease with the carved yew than she had with only a little sputtering magic from her fingers. Girl could conjure fire, and that in and of itself had saved his life when the Imperial Captain had found them. Katherine had smiled wickedly when the Redguard woman tried to impede their passage through the underground. The fireball she unleashed melted the woman’s fine steel plate.  
“See any arrows there, eh Ralof?” She called across the room. She was bent over a broken cupboard, sifting through the splintered wood.

“Got six, that enough?”

“Want I should give you six dead Imperials for your chivalry?”

He stood at her back and placed them in the pilfered quiver while she finished plucking through the rubble. When she stood, she did so with a little bounce and handed him three small vials. They were curing tinctures, weak ones, but more than useful when you had none to start.

They moved again, cutting through the passages slowly and carefully. They could hear faint echoes, either from above the ground or further along the path, one could not tell.

“Ralof!” They heard behind them. “Ralof! Thank the Divines!” A tall skinny woman ran toward them, her light blond hair matted in blood. Katherine recognized her face, she was one of Ulfric’s guard, one who stood by the Jarl’s tent.

“Selsi!” He shouted back. “You made it.” They held hands, almost tentatively, and Katherine was sure if she had not been there … “Where is Ulfric?”

“We were separated. Seth and Bolund went with him. I think they are headed to Falkreath.” The woman, Selsi, seemed to notice Katherine then. “The singer? She’s alive?” And apparently considered her mute, deaf and dumb as well. Katherine grit her teeth to keep down the impulsive insult from bubbling out.

“Lady Katherine has saved my life. I am taking her to Riverwood.” It seemed Ralof considered the same, speaking as though she were not there.

“I am not going to Riverwood. I’m going home.” She crossed her arms and dared them with a flash in her eyes to argue.

“The roads will be crawling with Imperials,” said Ralof. “You want to test your luck on your own?” He put hands on his hips. “You’ve no weapon beyond those six arrows. Takes six days to get to Solitude.” Katherine flushed - he was right, of course. “And I won’t even mention your clothes, girl.” He was right about that too. She had the roughspun the Imperials had given her and no shoes. She would freeze if the wolves or Imperials did not find her first.

“Fine. But I shall not stay over long.” Katherine let her arms fall to the side. “And it’s just Kat, all right? I’m not really a ‘Lady’ anymore.” She walked away from the pair of Stormcloak lovers, finding more interest in the little creeps of water in the stone walls or the rumbling overhead where the dragon was likely still tearing Helgen to bits.

\- - - - -

Brynjolf could not sleep. He tossed and turned, closed his eyes and opened them, shifted pillows and blankets and still, nothing. It was her. It was Katherine. After telling Tonilia what the assassin had said, he was utterly convinced it was the truth. But, he could not voice it again, not with Mercer on the warpath or the scathing looks from Dirge.

He put on his boots and an old woolen tunic. It was gray and faded, though once it was a deep blue with gold filigree. It was one of the first things he ever liberated from a wealthy personage. Back then he had been too skinny to fill out the broad chest, but the color and design had caught his eye and he could not simply walk away without it. Once he grew into it, the tunic became a staple. It brought him luck and ladies, which of course, was all he could ask for.

He made a quiet way through the sleeping Cistern, careful with each step on the sodden wooden bridges that connected each dais. Only Vex sat up, blinking sleep at the small noise and when she realized it was only Bryn she dropped back down into a snore. What he needed was a drink, or six, enough to black out. At this point, he was reasonably sure he did not care if he slept on the floor of the piss-stink bar or his bed, so long as there was actual sleep involved.

“Up late, eh Bryn?” Vekel was polishing the glass tankards, all ordered by size and shape on the counter. It was the man’s nightly ritual. “Ale or mead, my boy?”

“Strong Vekel, if you don’t mind.” Bryn rubbed his temples. He wanted sleep more than anything. Sweet, dreamless, Kat-less sleep.

“Just the thing, then.” Vekel set down his dirty rag and turned, humming while he filled a glass with various liquors. “Call it my own personal remedy, aye?” He said as he turned and slid the small, wide-brimmed glass toward Brynjolf. “What’s keeping you up?”

“Cats and kittens.” He said with a little smirk. No one underground had not heard what happened or who the mysterious woman was. And no one could believe Mercer had a daughter. Well, except for Vekel, Tonilia and Dirge who have been down here longer than the rest.

“Aye yes, the little miss.” Vekel went back to cleaning his glasses.

“You knew her?” Brynjolf knew he did, but the wistful barkeep liked to be prodded into stories, never with an assumption from the audience.

“That I did. Mother too, aye yes, the Frey ladies.” Vekel set down his rag and regarded Brynjolf sharply. “I’ll tell you boy,” Vekel pointed in Bryn’s face, “but Mercer gets wind o’ this -”

“He won’t.” Brynjolf waved a hand.

“Right then,” He poured himself a tall stein. “Way back Mercer went out Markarth way, lookin’ for a shill. Gallus sent him for something, bettin’ it was them Eyes you all are looking for now.” Vekel took a deep drink and Brynjolf did the same. Vekel’s Remedy was sour but warmed in his chest and spread through him. He was suddenly tired but he listened anyway. He was not missing this tale, oh certainly not.

“Instead he came back with a girl. Pretty thing, long red hair, big blue doe eyes. She was somethin’ else. Quick, sharp, wild -- that was Moira. Gallus didn’t trust her, oh no, but he trusted Mercer. They married, worked, played. Things were going really well.” Vekel’s eyes drifted toward the door, paranoia of ghosts no one dared speak of itching on his nerves.

“Then, Little Kat was born. Moira changed then, something about her and not a good sort.” Vekel shook his head. “‘Round that time Maven was settin’ up with Jarl Laila’s mother and the Family was moving in on our jobs. There was talk of a war.” Another long pull to drain the stein and Vekel refilled it and poured a second. “But, Moira & Mercer were happy little clams with their new little one. And Little Kat was such a pretty thing, always smiling, always laughing.”

“Maven made deals all around and eventually Gallus had to approach her. Moira didn’t like this, said you ain’t ever can trust a politician. She was right, mind you, and folk agreed down here. But, Gallus was right too - we needed Maven to stop a war.”

“So some time goes, Little Kat grows up into a fine little lady o’ five. She used to come down here and say The Flagon was her castle and I her steward,” Vekel smiled proudly. “Good little lass and smart too, she got the best o’ her parents, she did.”

“But ain’t nothing last, as you know.” Vekel finished his second drink, Brynjolf followed and the barkeep poured a third glass for them both. “Twas a fire at the old estate, just outside the city down the Dunmeri Road. Moira didn’t make it out, Talos bless her, but Little Kat did.” Vekel’s eyes went somewhere else next, a little flash of anger.

“And then, it all started to fall apart. Gallus was murdered, Karliah escaped and Mercer sent Little Kat into hiding.” Vekel’s hands went taut around his stein. “Twas a bad way about it all.” He sighed, “then you and Vex and Del all came in, little whelps. Been better since, aye.”

“Would have liked to see her again.” 

“Me too, Vekel.” Brynjolf said tiredly. He truly did. He wanted so badly for her to be alive, to waltz into the Flagon. She simply could not be dead, he knew it, he knew it as he knew he needed air to keep breathing.


	11. Interlude: The Hunt

Astrid flung the small scrap of parchment into the fire. She watched the ends curl into ash. She was a woman of no emotion, only a sliver for those nights kept up late by her wolf of a husband. That, and her family. Beyond the walls of her sanctuary, Astrid would watch the world burn with a small smile and praise for the Father above and in the shadow. And so was true of the others, her brothers & sisters all masters of death in their own right. 

“Babette?” Astrid said, not looking over to the small dark corner where the little one lingered. “Will you please let Iloria know I have need of her?” Astrid busied her fingers with the blank stack of yellowed parchment, curious to know whose name would form the next. 

“She is knitting, Astrid. We should not bother -”

“Babette. Please fetch Iloria. Now.” Astrid kept her voice sweet. The little vampire girl was more trouble than she was truly worth, but her jobs were clean and precise, as ever. Spare to mention the girl’s amusing way of relating each tale.

She heard Iloria before the lithe little Breton pounded bare feet into the small office. The woman wore a scowl and still held a half-knitted muffler in her hands. 

“You called, Astrid?” There was a slight disdain in her voice. Iloria had never thought much of Astrid, only for her progeny, Arnbjorn whom she held in high esteem. Astrid was a distraction from their nightly hunts more often than not. And her husband, the right fool, had gone and gotten himself a pup to follow his every move. It was sickening. 

“You are going to Riften.” Astrid said, crossing her arms.

“Why?” 

“You are to finish what Rasha and Kiva have started.” 

“Why can’t they finish?”

“They are dead.”

Iloria’s bright blue eyes flashed a feral anger. Astrid knew the girl was hungry, veritably starved. Astrid had kept Arnbjorn abed for days now. And little Iloria never hunted without him. The girl smiled, wide and full of those sharpened teeth. At least Arnbjorn kept his flat when not under the moon. 

“Her name is Katherine Frey. She has red hair, blue eyes. She did this and you are to pay her in kind.” Astrid moved three silent steps to Iloria’s side and leaned down. “She robbed us our sisters, Iloria.”

“It will be done.”


	12. Hide & Seek

You would miss her if you were not looking. One might, at casual glance, say that the girl in question was unremarkable. In truth, this was not the case at all. She was simply practised, methodical and above all, careful. She was good at her work, so much so that she was trusted far beyond reproach, even in the upper echelons of her guild and family. And make no mistake, it was her guild, her family. 

And oh, she missed them. Little Babette, so wonderfully childlike despite her many centuries alive. Nazir with his deplorable demeanor that was such a glaring lie (she also noted privately she had forgotten she promised to darn his socks). Veezara the only Argonian she never thought of putting over a cookfire. And of course, Arnbjorn. The girl’s heart warmed at the thought of her progeny. Her blood whispered his name. 

And Astrid too, even with the war coming over the clouds. 

She smiled as the dockside city of Riften came into view. She crinkled her nose at the smell of fish - Riften always smelled so sinfully, so disgustingly of fish. She hated it. But, she was ever efficient and had not spent herself on the four-day run from Falkreath. There were several advantages to the gift Arnbjorn had given so many moons ago. 

She stood in a small clearing just down the path from the main gates, eyeing travelers carefully from her vantage. She pulled leaves from her hair, smoothing it down gently, fixing a braid here and there. Living most days underground put little importance on her look, but the city was the very opposite. Arnbjorn had taught her much of the way of civilized people, which was hysterical when she thought on it now. If ever a more gruff man to teach which fork was used on a Wintersend holiday feast - she would have expected Nazir above all to show her the ropes. 

She smiled wanly while she dressed in the peasant girl’s dress. She had tasted of the silver mines where her father likely worked. Or lover, Iloria thought hard pressed. She had never been good with guessing ages. Uncannily, Veezara had a knack for it. It fit her a little loose around the chest, but the waist clung a shred uncomfortably. Blasted hips, she cursed inwardly. It would be no matter, she would not be dressed so overlong. 

She spun herself in a slow arc, gathering the wind in her skirts. It flowed around her, draping her legs in a burst of cool air. She sighed at the sensation and emerged from the little copse of trees and continued up the road. She let a little skip enter her steps and hummed a little tune. Today she played The Maiden Fair, a favorite of Arnbjorn’s. He liked her look, he said, so soft and unassuming, it was almost as good a cover as Babette’s. 

“Hullo,” she said cheerily to the guard. “Fine day, yes?” She covered her thick brogue so well she sounded almost genteel. 

“Yes, Miss.” The guard took a moment to appraise her and found no threat. Still, Iloria could tell he did not trust her, but she doubted it had much to do specifically with her. Riften was, for all purposes, a relative den of thieves. She smirked at the pun. He pulled the great heavy door for her and she slipped through when he had grunted and heaved it to a narrow crack. She thanked him with a bright smile, mindful of her sharpened teeth and a little wave she had seen many farm maids do when stablehands caught their fancy.

Once inside the city gates, door shut firmly behind her, she vanished in the crowd. This is where she shined. She was unique - fair of skin, bright eyes so wide & innocent at first glance, one a silvery gray and one a dark, near black, blue. She kept a head of shaggy blond hair, parts in braids and parts loose in curl. She had woven three ribbons, one red, one gold, and one of a reflecting silver that caught light in such a way it could blind a man if he stared directly at it. They had been gifts from Veezara. He always brought her back little bobbles for her hair.

Carefully and nondescript, the lovely wisp of a girl made her way to the docks. It was there she was to meet her contact. As was the way of things, he had information, some he would likely not give freely. Such was the way with thieves, she shrugged and shifted awkwardly in the cloth boots. On a normal day, well what constituted as normal with one of her particular trade, she would go to this with a stone in her stomach. She hated clandestine meetings, the cloak and dagger of it all. She much rather prefer her own means to an end. Messier, of course, but certainly never lacking in flair. Though, she surmised, her contact did require a particular touch to handle, and he was valuable. She agreed with Astrid on that point for certain.

Delvin Mallory was different. For one, he was smarmy and crass, craggy like an old woman on a hot and brittle Summer day. His information was always top-notch and he, even as a petty thief, was trusted in her family. Arnbjorn used him almost exclusively and her progeny hated dealing with outsiders. They were always his favorite meal. And best of all, he had no qualms with her or her Family’s particular eating habits. It was most refreshing.

She found him as easily as one would find a bent penny on the side of the road. He was not like his brethren and stood out like a sore thumb, proudly donning his black leathers and set of picks on a garish silver belt. He was laughing and conversing with a large fellow, one Iloria recognized vaguely. She had not been in Riften for well over a year and sometimes faces blended together. Maul? Hammer? Stone of a Man? She could not remember his obviously boring little name, and rightly, she did not care. 

She took careful steps to not be noticed, despite the desolate section of the docks. There were a few workers, a few sailors and none paid her a stitch of time. Even the brute cracking a grin at one of Delvin’s bawdy jokes did not see her creep behind the thief in question. 

“… so I says, ‘Watch yourself, you’re going to fall.’ And what happens? Daft bitch slips on a clay piece and snaps her neck.” Delvin laughed a little and the giant of a man guffawed. “Saved me the end job, if’n you catch my meaning.” Iloria cracked a little smile and put herself on tiptoes to move closer. Even when only inches from snatching his purse or the skin of his neck, neither brute or thief seemed to notice her.

“Yeowch!” Delvin hissed and turned wildly when she grabbed and tickled his sides. “God’s sodden body, what in the blazes are you doing?!” Iloria roared with laughter and even the big man snickers just so under his breath. 

“Oi Delvin, screechin’ like a whore, as ever.” She mused. “Lovely to see you too, Delvin Mallory.” Her brogue always slips when she’s in his presence, damn him. Those twinkling and mischievous dark eyes are endearing and were he not of warm skin and tight and brittle muscle, she would dine on him with glory, eating all his precious secrets. 

“Oh yes, fine fine.” He waved a hand, gesturing away from the big man to a small bench by the water. “Lovely little sight you are, as always.” He patronized when he offers his arm. She took it with a small flourish, reveling in their little game. Okay, she hated to admit, it was often fun dealing with Delvin. Even she understood his charm. 

“You’re farther west than usual today, my dear.” He took a careful seat next to her, close but not terribly, though their elbows rubbed. “Tell me of a pretty face.” He always smiles so easily. She knows it may be haughty, but she thinks it is just a mite wider, a little more sincere around her. 

“Oh you’ll love this one, I am sure. She sounds like one of yours.” Iloria took his riddle in kind, drawing him in to make the inevitable that much simpler. This was no easy trade, this was one that would have a price. This was the great annoyance of weight and jingling sounds tied at her waist. And even then, even Delvin may not make the trade. If there was one thing that could not ply Ol’ Del’s pocket, it was any threat to his own closely guarded family. Thieves and assassins did make good bedfellows, every now and again, though neither side would ever admit it. 

“Will I? Oh, tell it to me true then, and spare no detail.” He swayed slightly, rubbing her shoulder with his own. She had a flash of their last dealing, at a little inn in Karthwasten. She had even caught him laughing under his breath when they watched it burn. 

“Round of face,” Iloria started, “Blue water eyes and hair of red flame. True red, mind you, not that sun-soaked vistage of a lie.” She knotted her hands properly in her lap, a cue more than absent movement. “The tales say she has a voice to stop men's hearts and warms desperate widows’ bones.” Iloria made her voice full of wonder, a lesson from Babette. It worked, Delvin had that lecherous grin and was leaning in on her again.

“Sounds a vision of love, my dear.” Delvin nodded his head, his mind obviously turning over Iloria’s words and cues. He was searching the vast library of his brain, poring over dusty tomes and their illuminations for the person she was seeking. She loved watching him do this, observing all the mental cataloguing and searching. 

“Love oft’ accompanies treachery.” She said. “And she, a true vision of both.”

Delvin nodded. He was still digging through overlooked books, long ago their covers lost their names and writers. “And what songs has this lady sung to offend you so completely?” 

“Songs better left unsung. Treacherous, villainous songs.” Iloira nodded, allowing the barest slip of edge to enter in her tone. She had been fond of the cats. Who now would teach her to properly sew?

“Ah,” Delvin’s dark eyes glittered as he watched the smooth motion of the water underfoot. “The Princess.” He rubbed his balding head and shifted a shred nervously in his seat. “She has already found her way to the moon, I am afraid.”

“Then, you do not know?” Iloria made a sly motion of unlacing her fingers and waggling them slowly. A little pup, brown & white, made its way to sniff. It backed away when it discovered her other closely guarded secret. “A few gilded birds captured her song and made it their own. They flew fast, in the dead of night, perching themselves at Helgen.” 

Delvin nodded his understanding and set his lips into a grim line. Those books were frantic now, pages flipping at pace to work the details and possibilities - always an angle with Delvin Mallory. “If this is true, then why come so far to Riften? You would have passed through Helgen on the way.”

“You ask questions to which you know the answers, tch.” 

“True, my dear, but what you ask is to tear a very precious thread.” Delvin let a puff of air through his lips. “You know this will lead to war.” His voice was far away, a grim acceptance of the true shape of things. “Messy, messy …” he muttered aside.

“There are rules, good ser.” Iloria said in sing-song. She knew there would be war. She was not stupid. The Family knew it better than Ole Del. “Rules that must never be tread upon.” There had always been an agreement, a parlay of sorts between them. But now … Hah, this was something else entirely. The cats had been Astrid’s eastern ears. Delvin snorted at the mention of ‘rules’. Iloria nearly grinned as well, after all, she knew herself better than most. “And there is another song I’m after. A loud one, sung in a liar’s tongue.” Iloria’s voice came in a whispered hiss - this would be the hardest request. 

“Well that is something else, my dear.” Delvin leaned back, clear on his face he had an iron grasp of her riddle. “Seems you and I are in a bit of a bind.” He exhaled in a little whistle and sunk further into the bench. “You say a little bird still breathes, I say that cannot be. You say there is another song you’re chasing, and I say that is folly. Whatever are we to do? I’ve my loyalties and so do you.” His hands held the invisible weights of her requests, balancing them and then balling them into tight fists. She resisted clawing at his eyes. This was Delvin, and he was right, as ever. 

“You mistake me, good ser.” Iloria smiled even wider now. “I’ve come to trade you secrets. Little shining gems I know you’ll keep squirreled away from prying eyes.” She patted his knee.

\- - - - -

Delvin made a quick and deliberate pace back underground. This was pressing news. Urgent news. News he could not share with Mercer. Delvin valued his neck more than anything, even more than his fat purse. His mind made curious work of all the details, wondering just what Astrid could be thinking. So much over a pair of cats who licked Maven’s dirty boots? No, that certainly could not be the case. Astrid valued coin just as much as he did and Maven had more than plenty to spread around. Something big was going on, something that went farther than the two guilds. And Delvin could smell the shit as potent as anything. And Mercer, Maven and Astrid were at the thick of it, his gut was dead sure. 

He paid little mind to see if anyone followed, sloppy really, but he had to find Brynjolf first. And, as if before he had never had any luck in his favor, the man in question was holed up reading in a corner of the Flagon. Delvin waved off Vex and a steaming platter from Vekel and sat down with a pant in his breath.

“Something up, Del?” Brynjolf raised a brow. “You look like you ran all the way here.”

“I did, actually.” Delvin snatched Brynjolf’s mug and drained it. The sweet mead went down smooth, quenching his thirst and slowing his heaving chest. “Got some news.” 

“Right then,” Bryn leaned forward - Delvin was glad the man could read him well. “Tell it to me true then, brother.”

\- - - - - 

_The beast was made of black scales. It sang. A line of notes so pure of their sound they cut. Katherine felt blood soaking her silk & lace to the hem. The voice cantored on, sailing upward toward the heavens. It was a beautiful song. She could not help but listen, feel the melody down through her core. She would weep, she would laugh, she would dance if she thought she could move an inch. She could only watch as the fearsome creature made thundering steps through the mist toward her. _

_Katherine’s eyes closed for the crescendo’s white hot light. She felt the heat singe away her skin. She knew she was becoming ash. She was afraid when the creature sang her name. It cried out, searching for her amid the mist, clawing at trees and root and throngs of people who milled around uncertainly._

_They were searching for her, too. They wanted her to give up, let the beast take her, perhaps then they would be free._

_It saw her as it drew a long, rumbling breath. It’s golden and horribly soulful eyes told volumes more than the terrible and intangible words it spoke. She knew them, each one, down to the very syllable. But she could not open her mouth. She had no lips, no tongue, no teeth or throat. She was empty below the nose._

_And so it laughed._

Katherine bolted straight up, startling the blond man standing over a soup pot. He smiled weakly and familiarly now, as they have spent nearly a full two weeks together. He goes back to his cooking after a momentary look of concern. The nightmares are becoming fairly common. They have not spoken of Helgen since Ralof told the story to his sister when they arrived broken and bloodied to town. She is glad for it. Even she can hardly believe what she saw. 

“Morning, Kat.” He said quietly. He never asks her about the dreams. 

“Good morning, Ralof.” She steadied shaking feet on the floor, testing their ability to hold weight. She can already tell it’s freezing outside and takes the loosely woven wool knitter from the side of the bed. The fabric has its own chill, but anything is better than the further spread of gooseflesh.

“Gerdur asked if you would join her down by the water today.” Ralof spooned out two heavy clay bowls full of the boiling soup. Katherine, like in a dance, moved around him deftly to grab a half-loaf of bread and bits of crumbling cheese. They have done this every morning now for two weeks, sans a day or two when he slept later. 

“Sure. I’ve some clothes that need some serious tending.” Katherine spoke easily and she’s markedly impressed with how well and quickly she adjusted to a simpler life. And to living with a man and his family. Gerdur had pursed her lips and furrowed her brow in disappointment when she realized that she and Ralof were not involved, nor had he brought home a wife. Curiously, Ralof had kept silent on the woman-soldier Selsi, though she suspected he worried over whether she had gotten out of Helgen.

They set into the simple fare without much more conversation. They never spoke of Ulfric or Helgen or the war that would come to Riverwood’s steps. It’s so much easier that way, even though both of them know how little time is left. He will have to return to Windhelm and she will have to … do something. 

Return to Solitude? No, she could not - they knew her well there, Bolgeir especially and they likely know her hand in recent events. She certainly did not fancy another trip to the headsman’s block. She could go home, to Riften, to her father. But even that … She knew her father’s rage better than anyone in his employ. Daughter or no, he would see this as traitorous, especially with his recent dealings with the Black-Briars who were aligned so profusely with the Imperial Empire. It certainly had nothing at all to do with the certain fellow on her mind. No no, certainly not. Or she could do what was expected, on all accounts and sides - disappear. It would not be difficult. She could change her name, darken her hair and make decent coin on her voice & harp. Perhaps that would be best overall. But Katherine knew that would be futile. Eventually someone would recognize her and she would be back here again, effectively on the run. 

“Sven thinks he knows you.” Ralof said suddenly, shocking Katherine from her reverie. “Did you know him from the College? He studied there, a few years back.” For all accounts an eavesdropper would hear only idle conversation but Katherine had come to know Ralof better than that. He was quick as a whip and knew full well that both of them were far, far off from any real safety. 

“Big bloke, blond and smarmy?” She remembered him, oh sure enough. Blasted git still owed her six gold pieces. Ralof nods at her description. “Wonderful. Yeah, we weren’t what you would call friends,” Never friends, not in a thousand years. “But he should be all right. I know how to get him to clam it up.” 

“He’s got a girl in town. Trader’s sister. Best watch, she’s a jealous sort.” 

“I’m sure he does.” Katherine said with the barest hint of sarcasm, forcing her eyes not to roll. If Sven didn’t have three girls, she would have been shocked. “She’s nothing to worry over me. I don’t mix business with pleasure.” 

“Still,” Ralof said into his soup, “I’d talk to her, make friends. Can’t hurt, eh?”

\- - - - -

“I knew that was you!” Sven said as Katherine entered the Riverwood Tradepost. He was leaning on the counter, smiling luridly at the brunette woman blushing and hiding her eyes. “Katherine Frey, my my, if it hasn’t been, what? Four years?” He made an overt gesture as he spoke. 

“Four years too long, Sven.” Katherine returned. She had hoped to catch the trader’s sister alone, but it seemed that she would have no such luck. The woman already was giving her an eye. 

“Heard you came in with our Ralof. Didn’t think a common sort would ever win a woman like you.” Sven always had an attitude, an ego the size of Tamriel itself. He had been very vocal on the state of Solitude and the way the social hierarchy worked. Katherine herself was considered noble blood, on account that the Frey name was older than even the Medes. The Freys also boasted that they are directly descended from King Lysandus and Medora Direnni, his personal sorceress and mistress. 

“My personal life has nothing at all to do with you, prig.” Katherine flashed a wide grin that told Sven to get quickly out of dodge. If he learned anything from time in Solitude’s court, he had certainly learned to understand that look - one he was assuredly familiar with having received it from many-a-lady. 

“Ah, and now my day is complete.” Sven mock bowed and left, a slight snicker on his lips. 

“He is persistent, I’ll give him that.” Remarked the trader’s sister. She smiled and had a rosy complexion, saying she had not wanted the man to leave at all though propriety dictated he not dally. “I’m Camilla Valerius, it’s nice to finally meet you.” 

“Kat Frey and likewise, of course.” Katherine grasped the woman’s hands affectionately. “It’s nice I’m not the only young lady in town. Gerdur is lovely, of course …” 

“That she is, say no more.” Camilla giggled. “So, is there something between you and our Ralof?” 

“Well, not really …” Katherine made the appropriate pause and thought of Brynjolf the last she saw him, and a blush instantly spread on her face. This seemed to put Camilla’s foretold jealous mind at ease and she laughed knowingly. “We are … friends.” 

“Yes, yes. Friends. Sven is a friend to me, too.” Camilla smiled broadly at the allusion.


	13. Proving Honor

The Summer sun was lazy overhead. Farrun avoided the cloud cover best she could, as it roasted the ground beneath her. Farrun, lover and purveyor of the heat, was miserable. She wore thick leathers, cut all the way to her fingertips and ankles. Farkas, on the other hand, even dressed in full plate & thick fur, seemed at ease. She was waiting, any moment now, for him to burst into song and start chasing the butterflies. She sighed and wondered how she had ever grown accustomed to the cold. 

Ever since she and Vilkas returned from her waylay to Helgen, things had been different. She wondered when the next axe would fall - _hah, axe would fall_. Would they kick her out? She was not guilty of anything but happenstance, but it was something to be arrested and foisted upon the block. She could realistically hunt down Ri’Saad if all went sour. Surely he would still be looking for caravan guards. She hoped it would not come to that, not now, not after she grown so close to them all. 

Kodlak had not offered even a single negative word. He did not even ask for the story, why she had such a delay and returned without pelts and most of her belongings. That had rankled most of all. Aela had listened to her, only nodding after all was said and done. And Vilkas, she grimaced, he had been ignoring her the moment they crossed Jorrvaskr’s threshold. And the berth she was receiving from the others was disheartening at best.

Still, she walked on, finding Farkas’ disposition more than a little invigorating. 

“Why has Skjor called this my ‘trial’?” She asked as they began to move off-road. 

Farkas shrugged, eyeing her sidelong. “I’m not sure. You will be one of us after.”

“Am I not ‘one of you’ now?”

“This is complicated,” he said. “You will see.” He shook her shoulder playfully, “Farrun, you fret too much.”

Vilkas’ twin was quiet the rest of their way, stopping only to pull up bent pennies or watch while Thalmor marched along the roads. Farrun was thankful for the tree cover, there was only a single group worse than the Legion and that was the Thalmor. She didn’t fancy having to explain the amulet Farkas wore proudly on his neck, the golden talons slipped from his armor from time to time. 

They came to Dustman’s Cairn just before sunset. The air around the tomb was quiet, still, all surrounding and unnatural. Farrun felt her bones chill even in the nightly humidity. Farkas himself shivered. They each pulled their blades - hers a simple steel cut by Eorlund and his an overt axe made of ebony and malachite. Despite Farkas being dressed in full plate, the man moved easily in the shadows and Farrun found herself stumbling and making the most noise - a rarity, to be sure. 

“Someone was digging here,” he said in a halted whisper. “And recently. Step carefully, Sister.”

She moved around him and craned to see down the long flight of stairs. Each was cut from stone and the path so worn they seemed to buckle in the middle. They had a shine like water, or perhaps ice from the standard freezing temperature of the crypt. She saw nothing and they moved, careful and slow down the slick steps. 

It seemed an age before they found anyone, rats notwithstanding. It was a group of bandits, more so than Farrun imagined, from the way Farkas bristled and straightened at the sight. He seemed to turn feral as a little growl rumbled from the base of his throat. 

He lunged then, taking down three of the bandits caught unawares in a single stroke. Farrun charged in after him, careful of Farkas’ heavy swing. Out of the ten Farrun had been able to count, she managed only to down one. Farkas laid claim to the rest and he seemed no worse for the wear, barely even managing a sweat. 

“Silver Hand,” he hissed.

“Who?”

“Bad men.” Farkas shook his head as he slid his massive axe back into its sheath on his back. “Very bad. We must be careful now.” 

They kept the same, quick & quiet pace though now Farrun had a chance to use her oft’ forgotten bow. It felt good to have her old yew back in hand, the wood worn so well and smooth that her fingers fit in little nubs worn after so long in practice. Aela had often remarked that Farrun should acquire a new one, but sentimentality often outweighs need. 

Each bandit fell, to arrow or deft chop. It was quick work, albeit messy though Farrun reveled in the way blood moved faster in her veins. Farkas too, it seemed, was all in glory. 

After an hour or two, they stopped in a large room with a high, circular ceiling. It was painted to depict an ancient battle, likely the Nedic men and the Falmer, judging by the fading and cracking paint. The floor was littered with scattered bones and crumbling linen and Farrun was sure there had once been a fire, judging by the black scorches in the center. 

“Hello, Farrun.” Farkas said in a deep voice. She turned and came face to face with a dragur skull. It made her nearly jump from her skin. She screeched and Farkas cackled, “are you afraid of me, Farrun?” He made the skull speak again, using his hands to move with the withered mouth. “Do not, do not for I’d only wish to be your friend.” Farkas bit down his own guffaw and made a valiant attempt at keeping a straight face. 

“Why, Mister Dragur-Head, I’d be honoured.” Farrun mimicked the noble ladies of Balgruuf’s court perfectly and Farkas clutched at his sides. 

“Farrun, what is Morrowind like?” Farkas intoned through the skull. 

“Hot. Full of ash.” Farrun wiped at her eyes. “Whyever do you ask, Mister Dragur-Head?” 

“Thinking of taking a holiday, work on tanning my skin.” Farkas grinned. 

“Careful of our sun, then. You’ll turn to … leather? My, it seems you already have!” 

They laughed until it became a breathless chuckle. Farrun had relaxed -- she supposed that had been Farkas’ intention. She watched him as he flipped through molded parchment and debris left behind for centuries in the tomb. There was not much - a tincture here & there, a few soul gems and a number of small knives. The large anteroom seemed to be where the old Nedes embalmed their dead. Farkas seemed at ease in the old burial site, which meant he knew that she most assuredly was not. He was like his brother in that genteel way, though he was much more sly than he let on. That happy-go-lucky and simple nature were a ruse. Farrun smirked. 

“Hey,” she called out to him. “I’ve found a lever. Think it opens that door?” They had seen the heavy steel gate, rusted near through but not enough to break, when they entered the antechamber. 

“Maybe,” Farkas answered. 

Farrun yanked on the rusted lever and heard a noise she did not expect. Instead of a door opening, one closed, the very one in the small room off the antechamber. “N’wah,” she cursed and Farkas came to the other side snickering. 

“Look at what you’ve done, tsk,” he said with hands on his hips. “Let me see if I can get you out.” 

Farkas went into another side room, muttering and grunting with the effort of shifting a secondary rusted lever. Nothing happened, however and he returned with a shrug. Farrun caught movement coming from the side passage that they had came through and her eyes widened when she realized. It was more of those men, the bad men Farkas had called ‘Silver Hand’.

“It’s not him.” One of them said. They all brandished silver longswords and wore full plate.

“It doesn’t matter,” sneered a woman in a heavy helm. “He wears that armor, he dies.” Farkas instinctively looked down at his armor and winced, the fur & plate a-typical of the Companions was usually respected and even two-bit bandits gave a wide berth. 

“You are welcome to try.” Farkas said and lunged into their center.

\- - - - -

Farrun’s eye grew wide in what one would at first consider panic. Farkas had doubled over after throwing his lumbering greatsword into the chest of the nearest Silver Hand. He roared, not in the way a human mimics beast, but much the other way around. She took two steps back when the smell of sweat and fur were better than focusing on the sound of wrenching bone. 

It happened so fast, Farkas’ change. One moment, a man had been standing in front of her, chiding her through the head of a Dragur. The next stood a wolf, a true beast, terribly surreal. And he was massive. Farkas stood over six feet easily, and the wolf over seven. Long claws sat on the end of hulking, fur-covered arms and his head was fearsome and snarling. 

The Silver Hand that were still standing stepped back. It was enough for Farkas and he lunged, tearing out the throat of one and moving on to the next with a liquid grace. Farrun felt her entire body grow still, so much so that she was sure all breath had gotten trapped within her chest and would never leave. She followed Farkas’ movements around the antechamber, she marveled at his speed and ferocity and wondered how much he allowed to show in his real life.

But this begged other questions, and answered a few that had lingered quietly in the back of her mind. Aela and Skjor especially had an affinity for making comparisons of the Companions to wolves. And she had heard Vilkas and Kodlak speaking of a quickening and of blood calling out to them. She had let it go then, thinking it was still sleep that had clung or perhaps she had not heard them at all. 

The last of the Silver Hand fell with a whimper and plea hanging on his tongue. Farrun watched Farkas shift and change, return to humanity. The sound of his bones creaking and the skin shredding and mending was near enough to make her sick. But she did not turn her eyes away, remembering well the lessons of her father and brothers - ‘Never look away, Farrun. Not if you fear or tremble, not even for an insurmountable distraction. Each life, however nefarious, has a grander purpose and you will show respect for that. Always.’

Farkas released the steel door and strode back into the antechamber wearing only leather pants. He hummed as he retrieved the various pieces of his armor that had been left forgotten during his change. Farrun tried to keep her knees from knocking, scared for what she was not sure. Farkas was her friend, more so, a little brother but she had seen a side of him she was unsure of. Was the bestial nature something that stayed after he shifted back?

“Hope I didn’t scare you, Farrun.” Farkas said quietly. She turned sharply to look at his face, markedly dumbfounded by the shy tone in his voice. The slight red in his cheeks melted any fear she had felt and instantly replaced it with embarrassment. This was Farkas, he surely would never harm her. 

“You did not.” She said with a sly little grin. “Are all the Companions werewolves?” She was not sure she should even use that term, as it begs a rather fantastical image. 

“Hah,” Farkas returned her grin with one that looked relieved she was not running away in terror. “Just a few, my brother, Aela, Skjor … Kodlak.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a shade uncomfortable. Farrun could understand, wholeheartedly, why his confession might not sit right with the others. But Kodlak? That was … unthinkable. Farrun felt something akin to betrayal. “It’s a secret to everyone, really.” 

Farrun considered the man for a moment, watching the way he shifted and fidgeted. It seemed he was not supposed to be telling her this, so she may as well take advantage of that. “Are you … going to make me a werewolf too?” 

She had not expected to him to laugh. No, laugh was not the right word. Guffaw was a better choice.

\- - - - -

Farkas kept the fragment of Wuuthrad’s axe in his pack and they left the ruin just after nightfall. It was not a long trek back to Whiterun though they were both very tired. The city’s massive stone walls were a welcome sight. 

Neither spoke of Farkas’ transformation, better to let sleeping dogs lie -- Farrun smirked at her pun. 

“We’ve been waiting for you.” Vilkas was under the Gildergreen and dressed in full armor. It was the ceremonial set Farrun had seen Kodlak wear when he had call to visit Dragonsreach. “Come to the yard, Farrun.” Farkas nodded and beckoned her along with an encouraging, lopsided grin. 

Farrun was nervous as she approached the gathered members of the Companions. If she were honest to herself, she would have been shaking from nerves. The Companions rule themselves, with Kodlak serving as Harbinger and advisor. It was not often to see all the members, including those of the Inner Circle, gathered simultaneously. And all their eyes were focused on her walking doggedly behind the twins. 

“Come forward, Farrun.” Kodlak said with a friendly gesture in his arms. The Old Man was not one to smile or dicker, so Farrun took her place between Farkas and Vilkas. 

Kodlak took a step forward and the Companions bowed their heads. “You have proven yourself, Farrun. Who shall speak for this woman?” 

“I will.” Farkas said. 

“As will I,” added Vilkas.

“And I.” Aela intoned. “She has been a Sister to us all long before this day, Harbinger.” 

Skjor began speaking then, but Farrun did not hear him. Aela was smiling at her, Vilkas and Farkas too and it sent her head into a spin. She thought of her brothers and Father, Julan as well, their faces gladdening her heart where otherwise only nightmarish ghouls resided. It was the first time in a long time that Farrun felt warmth. Not the kind you feel from a roaring fire, but the kind that settles into your chest and breathes all on its own. 

Home was a funny word, always had been for a woman like Farrun who lived and breathed her duty -- both womanly when it had come to Julan and familial when it came to her clan. But they were gone now, a ravaged place left where they had been but now … But now Farrun _remembered_.


	14. Six Weeks

“Have you ever been in love, Kat?” Camilla asked, swinging her legs from the low branch. The two women had bonded since their first conversation, spending many days and ‘eves together. They drank and sang, Kat attempted to teach Camilla how to play the lute, but that was quickly abandoned. She had even taken a rather queer enjoyment from helping Camilla’s brother Lucan around the shop. He was pleased as ever, of course, his sister and friend were two beautiful women who brought in more coin than Lucan could ever hope to muster on his own.

“What lunacy is this, Camilla?” Kat laughed, “I don’t …” the wine had truly gone to her head. She now owed Lucan that card game he had been pestering her about. She knew she should not have trusted his ‘simple Imperial homebrew’ or when he touted it as ‘his mother’s finest recipe, Arkay bless her soul’.

“Oh please,” Camilla nudged the woman’s shoulder and nearly send them both tumbling off the branch. “Pretty little face like yours? Have to have been, _at least_ once.”

“Just because I have a pretty face does not mean I have ever been in love.” Katherine could feel a blush creeping up her neck. What precisely could she even say? Father kept her under lock & key despite being on the opposite side of the country? Even sheltered she knew that remaining a maiden at five-and-twenty was a sign of ill luck.

“All right, all right,” Camilla still did not believe her, but decided to let the subject drop. “What about someone you fancy? There must be at least one. What of Ralof?”

As if on cue, the man in question appeared by the Mill, Gerdur’s daughter spinning about his heels. It seemed he was full into a day’s work with Hod and covered in a thick layer of sawdust and grime. Kat admitted, to herself alone, that it was an impressive sight. When he removed his tunic, Camilla and Kat sighed in unison. This prompted a look of shock and a laugh between the two women. Kat could not remember the last time she shared something like this, not since she was a girl and Elisif not yet betrothed to Torryg.

“There is someone,” Kat said softly, once their giggling had subsided. Camilla raised her brow with a sly little grin. “He is …” Kat paused. What was Brynjolf? Other than a brigand and a thief, second-in-command to her father … “He works for my father.” Katherine sighed, that was it really, he worked for her father and she …

“Say no more, Kat.” Camilla gave a little knowing laugh and nudged her again. “If he’s a good man then surely your father will see that and --”

“He is, it’s not that. It’s just,” Katherine obviously could not reveal the whole truth - the fire, her mother, the Guild - so instead she settled on a song. The merchant's daughter and the farmer’s son were a popular set of ballads that the smaller villages loved to hear - a girl marrying above or below her station for love’s sake alone. Katherine had always hated those songs. “My father wants a good match and he says Bryn just doesn’t have the caliber.”

“But if you love him …?” Katherine’s eyes went wide at Camilla’s supposed question.

“My father is not the type to believe in love.” For the first time, Katherine found herself bitter when speaking the truth. Perhaps once he had loved her mother, but once she died, that was the end. Father had sent her off to Solitude to rot and reveled in his own depressed machinations. She missed the man who smiled, whose eyes danced when he was sharing little secrets. She was only five but he was her hero, her idol - the man could have done no wrong. But he did, he did wrong and she had been stupid and blind to have missed it.

Camilla put her arm around Kat’s shoulders and squeezed. She smelled of lilacs and sweat, a cheap imitation of how Mother had smelled, but it was enough for Katherine to feel tears forming in her eyes.

They were not for Brynjolf, whom she did not love, not yet though likely could. They were for her father, the man he had been, once or by Katherine’s own design. Had she imagined the kind man with sweets brimming out his pockets? Had she only dreamed of him singing to Mother, hair a swirl around them both as he danced with her? She tried to remember that man, but could not. Instead, in its place was the man that did not look at her when she cried out. It was the man who turned his back and did not stay to watch her carriage pull away from the only home she had ever known.

Camilla did not take it for laughter, though she likely should have. Katherine gripped her face and eyes, covering them. She was laughing. She had done her sobbing long ago and was not that little girl anymore. She wished she could be, just for a moment though, and let the woman next to her continue with her comfort and kind words.

\- - - - -

Katherine sat in the Sleeping Giant, watching Sven attempt to court Camilla. She found them to be quaint and it was quite the sight to see Sven smile and blush, play the part of a lovestruck boy. He wooed and drank in Solitude -- one of the reasons he left before earning his gilded pipes -- but now he seemed a different man all to rights. 

“Orgnar,” Kat sighed, “they are disgusting.” She shook her head and smiled at the gruff barkeep who seemed more enthralled with rubbing the same spot on the shined oak bar for hours on end than anything else. What was it Delphine had said? Potatoes in his ears?

“You are of a mind to agree with Faendal, then?” The man’s heavy brow quirked and he stopped his obsessive cleaning for just a single moment. 

“Faendal? The little elven man who works at Gerdur’s Mill?” Kat polished off her frothing mug and set it down, regarding Orgnar with the same cocked-brow expression. “You mean he fancies her too? Does she know?” She now leaned over the bar, intrigued by the deeper drama in the small town of Riverwood. In six weeks she had learned much she had not expected people of such a small town to concern themselves with. Love dramas, fickle pricing by the two merchants in order to compete (everyone always goes to Lucan though, it seems) and a curious love for dangerous music. Ralof had not been joking when he called this place for Ulfric. 

“Of course she knows, girl.” Orgnar laughed. “She wraps the boys around her fingers and they dance on her strings expertly.” He motioned to an empty tankard and Katherine nodded back -- if Orgnar had a tale to share, he would do so over ale. It was just another thing she had learned in six weeks. 

“But Camilla seems so sweet.” Katherine said. She had not the impression that the woman was loose in any way, but perhaps it was her flirtations that were something else indeed. “And I am reasonably sure she is interested in Sven.”

“She is, I’d say.” Orgnar agreed as he slid the frothing tankard to Katherine’s waiting hands. “But Sven, he thinks a wife is a woman who stands in the kitchen, barefoot and pulsing with child.” The stalwart barkeep shook his head. “And Faendal … Ah, poor lad wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like Camilla.”

“He does seem a ‘Yes dear, whatever you say dear’ type.” Kat nodded. “Not a bad thing, mind you.” 

“And what of you, Miss Katherine? You would prefer a man to do as told and never raise a sound otherwise?” She followed Orgnar’s gaze to Delphine, the Sleeping Giant Inn’s owner who seemed to do little more than grouse whenever some wayward traveler or drunken rabble needed a room. Ah-hah, she thought. Perhaps Delphine did prefer men who kept their noses out her business. 

“And what of you, Orgnar?” She returned his question with the weighty air of a practised actress. Oh now, she knew she was being asked after -- by Delphine, by Lucan and Sven’s crone of a mother. Katherine was new in town, and suspiciously residing with Gerdur’s family though she was of Breton stock. Luckily, most kept to themselves and assumed she was entwined with young Ralof. 

“What of me,” Orgnar took a moment to realize the weight of Katherine’s question. “Oh, you’re looking in the wrong place, sweetheart. Delph and I go way back.”

“I bet you do.” Katherine said with a wink. 

“Yeah, keep it to yourself, okay? Now, you going to play or just pester me all night?” 

Katherine finished her ale with a quick tip of her head, wincing at the strong taste that cloyed at the back of her throat. They didn’t have any Black-Briar stock this far west & south, but Orgnar’s homebrew was better than. Lady Black-Briar likely had no idea of the local competition - a thought that made Katherine smile a wide kitten grin.

\- - - - - 

Iloria had sight of Riverwood just at dusk. She had thought the village was larger, but that may have been Arnbjorn who made it appear so. The man had a way to make everything seem so much bigger than it was. Still, she was glad she had not stained the little peasant girl’s dress while she had hunted Sindig. Lord Hircine had been most pleased with her expert tracking and calculated cruelty, though he had said that she had no need to eat the man. Well, even good little worshippers need their sustenance. It was his fault, anyway. 

“And who are you, the proud lord said,” Iloria began to sing when she entered the town, which seemed to be full of the sleeping dead. “That I must bow so low?” She turned the head of an old woman whose silvery and watery eyes stayed locked onto the mark across Iloria’s lips. 

“Only a cat of a different coat,” Iloria sang a touch louder and thrust her shoulders toward the woman, causing her to screech and slam to the door to her little house. “That’s all the truth I know. In a coat of gold, or a coat of red, a lion still has claws.” 

“Ho there, girl.” Iloria spun in an arc, the peasant girl’s dress spinning around her knees. A man stood, blond hair bedraggled and with an arm full of cut logs. “Singin’ over Castamere will bade the children from their beds, you know.” He smiled in his chiding, though she could tell he knew her to be an outsider. 

“That’s just a story.” Iloria intoned the peasant girl once again, batting her eyes just so. It had an almost instantaneous effect. 

“Stories have their root in truth, aye?” He said with an even wider grin. “You have family here in Riverwood?” 

“Lookin’ for me cousin, messere.” Iloria bowed just so, wishing she had washed the blood from her mouth. She had grown accustomed to having it there, often forgetting until someone shied away or screamed. Perhaps in such a small place they were accustomed to trading with some of the more peaceful folk. She deigned not to ask. 

“Only one of your kind here, girl. Singin’ down at the Sleeping Giant, most like. Your kin a singer?” 

“Yes, messere.” Iloria plied her mind to remember what Arnbjorn had said -- the girl who killed the cats, the girl Astrid wanted out of the picture was in fact a singer. A supposedly accomplished bard out from Solitude. Funny, brigands and bards -- they were all the same. 

“Come on then, buy you a hot meal?” The blond man said.

\- - - - -

_‘Well they tore you down and they tore out your tongue and they made you kneel for all the things that you'd done, but you wouldn't cry and you wouldn't beg, you just screamed and tore out your teeth instead. And when they found you hangin’ in the wood, you said ‘At least now I don't have to be kind nor good. I'll be cruel and I'll be obscene. Tear out my tongue, cause I've been redeemed.’_

Katherine smiled when Ralof entered the Sleeping Giant. They were both keenly aware of the rumors surrounding them, but considered them to be far better than the truth. They were fugitives, more so than that, associated with the death of High King Torryg. They had decided it best to let Riverwood think what it would. Her smile faded when he saw the little woman at his heels. 

She called for a short break and wandered into the backroom to rest before heading back out to the main floor. Orgnar followed her back, thanking her in the gracious way he always did and gesturing excitedly to all the new faces that had come to hear her play. 

Katherine feared all the attention, especially the rabble of guards from Whiterun that claimed they were simply here to enjoy her fine voice. She shook these thoughts away and returned to the floor, gathering up the little whitewood harp by her chair. 

“Singer! Singer!” The little woman called, now seated at Ralof’s customary table and holding tight to a mug that seemed eight sizes to big. 

“Yes, little one?” Katherine intoned, feeling Aria’s hands on her shoulders, nails digging in to remind her of staying polite. She smiled her best, hoping her teeth didn’t cut into her lips. 

“Got me a request, yes.” The little woman said and took a large gulp from her mug. “Know the ‘Rains of Castamere’, do you?” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“Yes, I know it.” Katherine let a bare slip of a raised brow go toward Ralof, whose shoulders shrugged and wandered to Orgnar, likely to have his evening meal. “Not a superstitious one, aye?” Katherine added as she set her harp in hand. Kat knew the song all right, and now she knew the little one was not just a girl, but of Forsworn stock. There were very few who knew the song and fewer still that would sing it. 

“Just a song, yes? Song don’t rightly hurt, eh?” The little woman said in sing-song. 

Katherine grinned at the cheeky woman. She ran a hand through her hair and shot a quick look at Ralof, wondering if he knew her or not -- she would know soon enough. 

“Right then, I’ll need a second -- Sven?” She nodded to her old schoolmate who currently had his fingers twined in Camilla’s hair. 

“A moment, Kat.” He whispered something in the Imperial woman’s ear, making her blush and laugh. He was that way, Kat supposed. They made a decent match, empty-headed begats empty-headed after all.

\- - - - -

_And who are you, the proud lord said,_  
that I must bow so low?  
Only a cat of a different coat,  
that's all the truth I know.  
In a coat of gold or a coat of red,  
a lion still has claws,  
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,  
as long and sharp as yours.  
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,  
that lord of Castamere,  
But now the rains weep o'er his hall,  
with no one there to hear.  
Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,  
and not a soul to hear. 

The chattering stopped with the first pluck on Katherine’s harp and did not begin again until well after the song was finished. Sven did his piece nicely, allowing Kat to hold her own. He had always been selfish, one to try and outdo his partners, but he was likely shocked that Katherine decided to adhere to the little woman’s request and she was shocked as well, that he knew the tune by heart and without a sheet to follow by. 

The little woman eyes -- a haunting set, one gray, one the shade of midnight -- followed her every move. The heat of summer had leaked out of the Sleeping Giant as she sang out, the complicated notes seemingly come from nowhere. Sven’s voice too, took on an eerie quality, as though the murdered Lord of Castamere had brought his traitor’s hand upon them. 

When she finished, nary a sound could be heard. There was no applause and no one breathed for they all knew what ill luck followed the tune in its wake. Some of the elder women left, lest their children and grandchildren be spirited from their beds. 

Katherine looked to Sven, who had gone a shade whiter and took on a tremble in his hands. He nodded to her, one hand over his chest with three fingers splayed -- a traditional word of thanks and honor among those who’d come from Solitude -- and took his seat by Camilla. She too, seemed fitful, as though she would collapse any moment. 

When Kat looked over to the little woman, she wore a sharp grin, teeth bared. Her odd eyes were unblinking in their stare and the dangerous flash that shone there was one that shocked Katherine’s spine. Her fingers shook, the echoes of her harp still lingering there. The little woman stood and left the tavern, her haunting eyes never leaving Katherine’s face, as though she were committing it to memory.

“Kat …” Ralof called out, motioning to take a step away from the little raised dais and join him privately. His large hands felt warm against her chilled skin as he led her to the backroom of the tavern. Orgnar often allowed this, the gruff barkeep had a soft spot like no other. 

“Who was that, Ralof?” She demanded, hands on her hips though they shook from fright or the cold. 

“Came into town singing that bloody song, said she was your kin.” He matched her stance, hunching his shoulders to get to her level -- she stood near two heads shorter. 

“I’ve got no kin other than my father and he --” she looked away for the barest of moments, “she’s not any family of mine.” Katherine knew what it meant, or what it could mean. A hunter had come, for her father, for Maven Black-Briar, for the Brotherhood. “I have to leave,” she hissed through clenched teeth and pinched at the bridge of her nose.

“And go where?” He asked, a sudden rush of anger roiling over his skin. He had become fond of the girl put in his charge, the one who had a voice he had grown so accustomed to hearing each morning and night. “The Imperials still hunt for us. For you.” 

“Ralof,” she sighed.

“Katherine,” he mimicked. 

She sat on the edge of Orgnar’s bed, knees knocking and looking like a shock of a young girl, not the brigand & bard she so claimed to be. She gave him such a look, so sad and years older than she was, like time had stopped so long ago for her. 

“What else are you running from?” He breathed, wondering if he even spoke at all. He had known since they had first been saddled with one another that there was something else, something Ulfric was protecting her from, more than just Imperials. But Ralof had a sister and knew it was travesty to pry in the affairs of pretty women. So he never asked. Not until now. 

“Everything.” She bent her head and let long locks, curled from the dry heat of the tavern, cover over her eyes.


	15. Songs, Giants and Dunmer - Oh My!

“What do you mean, leaving? She can’t leave. It’s too --” Gerdur, despite being an otherwise stalwart Nordic woman, had a bit of hawkish shriek on the edge of her voice. 

“I am an adult, I can speak --” Katherine, despite being an accomplished bard, felt meek in front of the woman. Two parts guilt, three parts the born & bred highborn nature of her life. Gerdur was an elder, a woman who had offered a bed to a stranger, who still did in truth. 

“Right sister, far too dangerous.” Ralof, despite being an otherwise smarmy and go-lucky sort, crossed his arms and scowled, nodding his agreement with the sister whose eyes matched his. 

“But I --” Katherine tried again, and subsequently, failed again to interrupt her newly appointed guardians. 

“Just a young girl, poor thing. Caught in this mess.” Hod shook his head, crossing his oaken arms in a fatherly manner -- Ralof attempted to straighten his shoulders but the look did not fit his face.

“I can speak for myself.” Katherine chimed in but they were not looking at her. They didn’t even act as though she was in the room. 

“No money, no name, wanted by the boorish Imperials -- poor, poor dear.” Gerdur put a remorseful hand to her face. 

“I’m not sodding dead!” Why is it that everywhere she went Katherine was treated like a child? She could hardly stand it, discussing her as though she were not even present, or dead. “I’m standing right here and I am quite sure I can leave if I wish.” She frowned sharply, chin turned derisively and arms crossed dangerously. “Ralof -- is Ulfric Stormcloak keeping me prisoner here?”

“No, Kat --” She waved a hand to silence Ralof. 

“Do the Imperials know my face?” She could feel a presence at her back, one she had not seen in nearly two months now. Father wasn’t dead, but it was as though his voice had crept into hers and spoke with foreign tongues that made her mouth taste like ashes.

“Not specifically.” Ralof admitted.

“Then I will leave. I cannot stay here. Helgen is gone and soon the Imperial forces will be looking for survivors. We are not the only people to escape, are we?” 

“No.”

“That guard, is he not from Riverwood?” Katherine remembered the man who would have done his duty to the last, the one she walloped as he tried to keep her from escape.

“Alvor’s nephew? He has returned?” Gerdur wore a panicked expression. “Has he seen you, brother?”

“No.” Ralof rubbed at his forehead and Gerdur went straight to her alchemical cabinet for a little Hack-lo to chew. Katherine smirked at that, the old Dunmer remedies weren’t too good for Stormcloaks, indeed. 

“He’ll remember me -- that is, if he doesn’t already know I’m here.” Katherine crossed her arms, feeling the shadow of Father’s hand on her shoulder. She could feel her veins freeze and her eyes grow dull and cold. “I will be leaving. Tonight.”

\- - - - -

She once had everything. A bright girl blessed so with a pretty face and voice come from on high, but with a streak inside her so black, the shade of the void. She was from a prominent family, old money rarely seen so far from their native lands. Cities flourished with their gracious coin, and expeditions lead through the Wrothgarian Mountains made them known among all kinds.

Custom gowns, hand-crafted instruments, hands and feet that never saw the daily toils of the common man. She drank her morning tea from a silver cup inlaid with gold and moonstone filigree. She had a dress for every occasion, practice leathers for any weather or time of day, weapons cut from legend and any horse she desired. She lived in a mansion second only to the Blue Palace. A different handmaiden for morning, noon, night and parties – of which there were many amid the noble raff that choked Solitude's belabored streets.

Now she had the twin moons above, full and clear as though she could touch them. This, she supposed, made all the difference. A small pack, carrying only food and the clothes on her back – a borrowed set, likely handed down through a number of sisters -- the garment smelled of must and the wool scraped at her skin, and yet, she was ... she had stayed much too long, done exactly what she had been forbidden to do. 

Father had kept her locked away. The rare occasion someone chose to speak with her, she ate it up, so eager and willing for conversation. They had called her wistful and wanton, a wily girl with pretension toward wanderlust, behind her back. She never cared, not once. She had her Uncle, craggy as he was, and Bolgeir, the guardsman whom she had befriended. Had she never deigned to pick his pocket they would never have met.

And Brynjolf. She sighed, felt her shoulders slump against the thought of his face. He worked for her father. Did he know? Did they think her dead? Seven span without a word … Perhaps it was better this way. Father wouldn’t hurt him if she was dead. ‘Forgive me if it makes me want to know you’. The scrape of his voice rankled in her mind. She shouldn’t have pushed him so harshly away. Her skin prickled when she realized she wanted to see him again.

She smiled against the shiver of night wind. She should have worn a cloak.

\- - - - -

Vex’s long legs are curled underneath his and ice cold feet press the inside of his knees. She is reading, he is not, arms long over his shoulder and eyes shut. His head is throbbing, Delvin is talking about a game of cards. He doesn’t care, hasn’t for weeks. Even his affair with Vex is becoming old hat, and her face is ever shifting to a bright and sunny, toothy wide grin framed by ginger locks and marked by bright blue eyes. 

But that girl is dead, and even if she weren’t, she’s Mercer’s only kin. His daughter and Brynjolf learned long ago never come between a man and his daughter. A scar itches along his neck, a small strip of white against the hazy tan he has from standing in the markets day in and out. Her voice has been following him, the hollow sound of a lute plays over in the recesses of his mind. 

_You touch my skin and then you think, that I am beautiful but I don’t mean a thing to you. Yes, I am beautiful, but I don’t mean a thing to you._

She was wrong, obviously, though he doesn’t think she was singing for him at all. Face like that? A highborn woman like her? May be a daughter of the Guildmaster but would she concern herself with a thief? He had never considered this before, not with the others who came before her. He never cared if they were happy or sated, his only thoughts were for himself and how to solidify the Guild’s hold on Skyrim. But Katherine Frey, a storm brewing, to be sure. Oi, he shakes his head and figures its time to get his thoughts away from the dead. What even would have come of it? A lashing, a quick jab just under the bridge? 

“Bryn, are you even listening?” Delvin’s craggy voice breaks through his thoughts.

“I’m staying in tonight,” he answers without opening his eyes.

“Like you’ve a choice, hm? You know Mercer wants this job done.” So not cards, he realizes and sits up. Vex is knocked aside with a little curse on her tongue but she keeps reading. He had forgotten about the little shill Mercer wanted them to do -- a little game, run by the pair of men on a pair of girls who work at the Bunkhouse. 

“Right,” he says, itching his scalp and stretching. “Let me get dressed, yeah?” Vex settles into the seat he’s just vacated, curled still in her book. For days now she hasn’t set it aside, constantly twitching her thumbs to get back into it. 

He can feel Delvin eying him as he leaves the room. Chattier than a matron, that one, Bryn thinks. He expects a right grilling for information, on their way out this evening.

\- - - - -

The rains started just as Whiterun came into sight. Katherine wore a miserable expression along with her sopping wet traveling clothes and her hood felt like a great weight on her head. She shivered as she crested the final hill and eyed the smoking chimneys and high walls and the sweet, sweet promise of an inn and bath when she finally reached the gates. Just a little further, she reminded herself. 

“Singer! Singer, wait!” The quick and heavy footfalls came upon her from seemingly no where. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” The girl, the little Breton from Riverwood, the suspicious one who asked to hear ‘The Rains’ was shouting at her. 

“You --” Katherine said with her heart in her throat. “You’re the girl from the Sleeping Giant, right?” Strange, she thought, that she would be followed. Perhaps she ought to be on guard. She wasn’t stupid -- she figured the girl was up to something the moment she walked into the inn, now, perhaps she was set upon a task. She just didn’t have the look of an assassin. Katherine considered this, staring in ogled silence at the girl, hair in braids that dripped the rain and peasant dress worn and soaked down to the skin. Odd even so that she wore no shoes and wiggled her stubbed toes in the mud.

“My name is Iloria. I bet you have one too.” The little blond smiled innocently, blinking odd eyes at her. One gray, one a dark blue like deep, dangerous waters. The contrast was unnerving.

“Katherine, though you can just call me Kat.” She smiled as she took the girl’s proffered hand. “What are you doing out here so late?” She asks with a curious quirk in her brow, the idea not lost that she is out so late as well. 

“Well I,” the girl smiled and dipped her head shyly, allowing her shaggy locks to cover her eyes. “I just admire you so, Miss Katherine. I was hoping …I was hoping that you’d let me follow you.” 

Katherine reared back slightly at the admission. She had heard Pantea talk of admiring fans who doted upon her, ran her errands and reveled in her sumptuous glance. Katherine was not so struck with airs that she ever thought she would attract a fan but she supposed that’s what came when one was able to craft and carry a tune. And perhaps, she was desperate for a little ego stroking.

“If you really want to, I suppose that’s all right.” Katherine watched the girl’s features lighten and her odd eyes sparkle with the acceptance. Kat was unsure just what she was getting herself into, but company was company and she had often been told she had issues with saying ‘no’.

“Oh!” The girl exclaimed. “This is so exciting!” Katherine arched a brow and nodded, gesturing that they should continue. “I promise I’ll be useful. Oh, I do, I do!” The girl spun around, kicking up splotches of mud with her bared feet and Katherine reared back from the splash. It made little difference with the heavy rains still falling. 

“Right then,” she smiled best she could, shielding her eyes from the thick drops. “Shall we?”

\- - - - -

The pair of brigands made quick and deft steps to the Bee & Barb, sated smiles painting their faces. It had been a successful job at the Bunkhouse and each had a heavy purse clanging against their hips. Brynjolf would have been better pleased to return Underground, but Delvin would hear none of it and insisted he join him for a drink. He mentally steeled himself for the questions. Since her death, Katherine Frey was a name spoken in whispers throughout the Flagon and Cistern, though never within earshot of Mercer, lest the man doll his infamous punishments. 

They took their customary table and Kereeva dutifully placed two frothing mugs before them. They clanged stoneware and tipped their heads respectfully and drank in unison. 

“So, what ails you brother? Such a sour face you’ve been wearin’ as of late.” Delvin Mallory cocked a brow and took a hard gulp on his ale. “Got somethin’ to do with that girl, aye? Always were a sucker for the pretty ones.” 

“She’s Mercer’s daughter,” he shook his head, sneer ghosting over his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ there that ain’t dead and gone. Bury it, Mercer said, aye.” 

“You never bury a pretty face, kin aside. What’s true now, brother and what’s false? Has she gone to meet the Divines or does she still live?” 

“You know she’s dead.” 

“Do I? I suppose that might be the case.” The smarmy little man chuckled into his ale with a curious gleam to his eyes. 

“It’s the truth, aye. Dead and buried, though a shame it may be.”

“Right then, brother, as you say.” Delvin shrugged his shoulders and there was no more talk of dead redheads and their interesting familial connections.

\- - - - -

“What about, Lay of the Last Tinker?” Iloria danced around Katherine’s feet, much like a short-tailed cat that used to linger around her manse. The sight was strange, as Iloria was most assuredly human, but it was also familiar, an odd comfort from home. 

She pulled her lute as they walked with her eyes toward the cloudy night sky, praying rain would leave them be until they reached the Whiterun gate. She plucked a few simple notes, humming to remind herself of the words. 

A goat-skinned tambourine, what sights it has seen. Blazing eyes of dancers daughters of the tinker queens. You hang your cloak in a gypsy fashion. I see a scar of an ancient lashing. Born a babe in Macedonia to the sounds of seas a-crashing. 

It felt good to call upon the old songs, the ones that were simple enough for even a child to learn. And she also didn’t mind that this girl, Iloria had been requesting all manner of song and tale. She was … endearing in her own way. It was clear she was unaccustomed to any sort of city-life, but she still seemed able to make her own way. An admirable thing.

It made Katherine feel foolish. Here was this obvious girl, unarmed and wearing only an old frock who carried nothing on her back and she was smiling. She was happy and carefree. She had no rebel Jarls ordering about, no father who bore no love or kindness, not a single tie to the world. Katherine wondered what it felt like, to be unbound. 

“That was GREAT!” Illoria clapped and spun, dug her toes into the soft mud. The rooftops of Whiterun’s many clustered houses began to show themselves in the dark, cloudy night. Katherine was relieved at the sight. “Oh, what about,” Illoria bit her bottom lip and it seemed she was working a great complexity behind her oddly colored eyes. “Bandit Queen? Do you know that one, Kat?” 

“Hm,” she considered -- there was ‘The Bandit Queen’, ‘Queen of Bandits’, ‘Lady of the Moon’ -- all of these were familiar, but she did not want to disappoint. An audience of one was still an audience. 

“Over to the left -- Get over to the left!” They heard the shouts and felt the ground tremble slightly underfoot. Though the night was heavily fogged, they could see the barest outline of the giant. He swung madly at the people surrounding his feet and let out a guttural yell that shook Katherine’s ears. 

“Sodding giants,” she heard Illoria mutter before the girl darted forward, magic sputtering from her fingertips. 

Katherine threw her lute to the ground and took off after, pulling her bow and a shoddily-carved arrow from the quiver on her back. She came to the fence post which had contained the giant and its foes and drew back, taking a careful and measured breath. Illoria hopped over the fence and began to swing wildly with her conjured axe and the others who had already been fighting the crazed creature faltered for a moment when the little blond, childlike stranger appeared. 

The giant tossed his club in the air and let it fall, crashing down on the leg of one of the heavily armored warriors nearest to its knee. The man let out an animistic sound, like a growl and fell. Katherine loosed her arrow and pierced the creature’s neck. The giant was no incensed and Katherine drew another arrow while the others kept it in place. 

This time, she hit her mark. Dead between the eyes. 

All that could be heard after was silence, in parts and pieces shattered by the sound of ragged breath and the moans of a wounded man. 

“Oh, that was fun!” Illoria squealed. “I love fighting giants.” She wore a broad grin across dimpled cheeks and looked between Katherine and the warriors who had begun the battle but didn’t finish.

“Iloria,” Kat said as she slung her bow and quiver back over her shoulder. “I didn’t know you knew any magic.” Despite being of Breton stock, Katherine was a highborn noble and her training was that of the bow and occasional sword. She could light a fire with magic, but after a few small mishaps that had resulted in the rebuilding of the eastern wing of the Bard’s college … well, it was back to tinder and flint for her. 

“You don’t? What do they teach you in your fancy cities, eh?” Iloria was in constant motion, just as she had been when they met on the road. The wording brought a bit of Mercer’s bile into her throat, but the girl blinked and Katherine thought it obvious it was no insult.

“I’ve never really been good at --” Her words were cut short by the gray-skinned fist that slammed into her nose. Katherine fell backwards, toppled feet over head and rolled onto her side, feeling the blood beginning to gush from her now-broken nose. 

“Oi, what do ya’ think you’re doing, elf?” Iloria’s voice went two octaves deeper and the sound was serpentine, a true sound that did not fit with the image Katherine had made of the girl. But, such thoughts were idle as she stood on shaking legs, dusting herself off while attempting to stop the rush of chills in her fingers. 

“Wretch, filthy scheming wretch!” Katherine knew the voice, even with stars in her eyes and head full of mud and nothing. 

“Farrun?” She squeaked out, earning a bubble of blood down her throat. 

“I should kill you where you stand.” The harsh tone set Kat’s eyes wide and more so when the blade pressed against her throat. “I nearly lost my head because of you, girl.” The vicious edge to her voice caused a growl to emanate from behind Katherine. 

“You will lay down your sword, foolish elf. She is _mine._ ” Iloria had managed to slide between them, effectively cutting off any access Farrun’s blade had to Katherine’s throat. The sound of her newfound voice, however … was pure ice. Ice and venom, a different and unusual sound that shook Kat to her bones.


	16. The Shape of Things

_Two bretons, two nords and a dark elf walk into a bar …_ It was all Katherine could think of as they stood stock still around the body of the giant. Farrun, one red eye gleaming murder, had a strong hand around the hilt of her sword. The two Nords, one wheezing over his broken leg and the other a woman clad only in scraps of fur bore down with harsh eyes barely visible through thick paint.

"Put down your blade, elf." Iloria's hands sputtered with magic in warning. "Now." The chill of the rain could not compete with the harsh sound of her voice.

"Out of my way, girl. I've no quarrel with you." Farrun's single red eye did not look at the tiny blond, instead, they were focused solely on Katherine. Between that glare and the sound of her compatriot's voice … well, Katherine supposed she might as well have just stayed in Riverwood.

"Farrun," the wheezing man spoke. "Let it be. I need healing." He lay back on the ground with a thump and groan that turned eyes away from the fray.

"This is not over Katherine." Farrun warned with the point of her blade and went to the man's side, helping him to stand. The other woman, who seemed at ease with barely nothing covering her skin, went to the other side to help.

"I'm a healer, you know." Iloria clasped her hands behind her back and spoke with a voice that had returned to normal - whatever constitutes as normal, anyway. "Here, here." She said again and approached the three warriors cautiously.

Bright gold magic swarmed around the man's leg and the mending could be seen. Katherine had seen healers in the temple back in Solitude, but they didn't have the same kind of aura. Their's was a weaker sort and most relied on herbs and foul-smelling tinctures instead of healing magic. Iloria was much more powerful than she let on.

"Thank you, miss ... ?" The man said.

"Iloria - _just_ Iloria." The girl replied and turned back toward Katherine. "Your turn. Can't have a singer with a busted up face, aye?" Kat would have laughed if the pain wasn't so blinding.

The same magic filled her vision with gold and a sweet little sound like a whisper buzzed by her ears. Magic was a funny thing, one she felt jealous over considering her blood. Despite being a breton, the bard was not disposed to the art and more often than not, caused more bad than good.

"Why's that elf so mad at you?" Iloria asked after.

"I haven't the foggiest," Katherine lied, rubbing her re-adjusted nose with a wince.

"You're lying." Iloria crossed her arms, attempting to look imposing, though now that she had returned to the carefree visage, it fell flat.

"It's a long story," Katherine replied with a sigh, thinking back on how far off those days seemed now. "Let's get into the city, all right?"

The little blond shrugged and scampered forward, pattering off in every mudhole they passed.

\- - - - -

Brynjolf lay in his bed, arms curled under his head and blissfully alone. Vex was out of Riften, running something for Mercer, as always. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept alone. It was not a lonesome feeling, but a calm one. Like still waters around breakers.

He had not thought much of it as they had drank, but it had seemed now, after the fact, the Delvin knew something about the death of Katherine Frey. Bryn knew that Delvin had business relations with more than a fair few of assassins, but it was on Mercer's orders to do so. He was to keep the peace, as it were.

And keep the peace he did, all while bedding a buxom little breton girl with a mad streak in her. Bryn smirked - Delvin always liked it wild - a cannibal, a werewolf and an assassin all rolled into a sweet and seemingly innocent face. The gray and dark blue eyes she bore were testament to her madness, however and Bryn didn't trust her.

But, that was Delvin's business and for years the man seemed to have it well enough in hand. Left alone with his thoughts, however … his mind wandered back to their conversation. The smarmy little man was fond of speaking in riddle, but this was different. There was something between the lines of his speech that turned the wild gears in Brynjolf's head.

"You know she's dead."

"Do I? I suppose that might be the case."

He had known Delvin long enough to be able to pick apart the little hidden meanings behind his words. And, he knew Katherine was being hunted. The assassins had likely lead the Imperial forces to their little camp by way of whatever fell means they practised.

So, he considered in the bleak darkness of the Cistern, could Katherine Frey be alive? And if she was, why had she not returned? Why go along with such a ruse? It was clear Mercer held no real love over his daughter, at least, what Mercer had deigned to show over her death, but … family was family, right?

He rolled on his side, shut his eyes and slept, better to put such conspiratorial thoughts off until the morning.

\- - - - -

Whiterun was a lovely little city, breathing its sleep as the twin moons brazenly shone through the thick rain clouds. Katherine was glad for the high walls and even for the scowling, tight-lipped guards that eyed the pair of soaked bretons as they passed.

The rain had stopped, for a moment anyway and the pair of little ladies made their way to the only inn in town. The raucous patrons inside could be heard before they placed feet on the steps. Katherine sucked in a breath, opened the door and was slammed in the face by the smell of hot food, beer and sweat. It filled her with warmth instantly and reminded her of the Winking Skeever back home.

"Oi, ladies!" The barkeep shouted over the din. "Need a drink? A bite? A room?" She was a round woman with a soft face and lines that made her appear almost regal despite the ragged and common clothes she wore.

"All three, if you would." Katherine shouted back and Iloria followed her quietly to the pair of bar stools that were vacant.

"Come a long way, miss?" The barkeep eyed them both with suspicion for only a moment, figuring their soaked clothes and sparse packs made them travelers that were becoming so common in Skyrim as of late.

"We have," Katherine's nose followed the steaming plate a wench was serving to a rather large rabble of men at the back table. "Do you have any rooms?"

"If you've got the coin, I've got the room." The woman grinned and winked as Kat slid the hefty little bag of gold toward her. Katherine wore a dull expression, she figured, considering her puffed up eyes she knew would be black by morning. What a mess they must seem.

"That is enough, I trust?" Katherine spoke.

"Aye it is, miss …?"

"Katherine Moraine," she lied. Better to not drop the Frey name in a place where eyes and ears were always watching - an old trick of Father's come out again, she winced.

"Well, miss Moraine, let me show you to your room." She waved a hand that begged the pair of sodden maidens toward the upstairs and though she kept on speaking of this and that, Katherine had no ears to hear her.

Call it a series of long nights and days. Iloria, however, seemed enthralled with all the local lore that the barkeep was dispensing. Each syllable was dotted by an enthusiastic 'ooh' and 'aah' from Katherine's little shadow. It was enough of a distraction that, once inside the room, Katherine was able to toss over a tip and land face first into the warm, straw-stuffed bed.

"You're not going to sleep, are you? We just got here!" Iloria threw her hands up and whined, prompting Kat to grab a pillow and shove it over her head.

"Yes. I am going to sleep. Do as you please."

"You're. So. Boring." Iloria said with three quick stomps and she was out the door and back into the reverie of the inn below them.

Sleep came, as it does, even against the torrent of thoughts crawling around her mind. There were things to be decided, things to do and people to see - all of which, could wait until morning.


End file.
